DUKE 

UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


THE  INFORMER 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 


THE  PROFESSOR’S  HOUSE 

by  W ilia  Cat  her 

THE  SAILOR’S  RETURN 

by  David  Garnett 

COLD  HARBOUR 

by  Francis  Brett  Young 

FIRECRACKERS 

by  Carl  V an  V e c lit  e n 

GREEN  BUSH 

by  John  T.  Frederick 

THREE  KINGDOMS 

by  Storm  Jameson 

THE  INFORMER 

by  Liam  O’Flaherty 

ST.  MAWR 

by  D . H . Lawrence 

THUNDERSTORM 

by  G.  B.  Stern 

BENONI 

by  K nut  H am  sun 


COPYRIGHT,  1925,  BY  LIAM  O’FLAHERTY 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 
OF  AMERICA 


THE  INFORMER 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https  ://arch  i ve . o rg/detai  Is/i  nfo  r m e rOI  of  la 


CHAPTER  I 


IT  WAS  THREE  MINUTES  TO  SIX  O’CLOCK  IN  THE 
evening  of  the  fifteenth  of  March  192 — . 
Francis  Joseph  McPhillip  ran  up  the  concrete 
steps  leading  co  tne  glass-panelled  swing  door  that 
acted  as  street  entrance  to  the  Dunboy  Lodging 
House.  The  House,  as  it  was  called  in  Dublin, 
among  criminal  and  pauperized  circles,  was  a grey 
concrete  building  of  four  stories.  It  stood  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  a wide  wind-swept  asphalt  lane  off 

B Road  on  the  south  side  of  the  city.  A maze 

of  slum  streets  surrounded  it.  An  indefinable  smell 
of  human  beings  living  in  a congested  area  filled  the 
air  around  it.  From  the  building  itself,  a smell  of 
food  and  of  floors  being  scrubbed  with  soap  and 
hot  water  emanated. 

A drizzling  rain  was  falling  from  a black  bulg- 
ing sky.  Now  and  again  a flock  of  hailstones, 
driven  by  a sudden  gust  of  querulous  wind,  clattered 
down  the  lane,  falling  in  little  dancing  groups  on 
the  hard,  perspiring  asphalt. 

McPhillip  ran  up  the  four  steps  and  peered  into 
the  hall  hurriedly  through  the  glass  door.  He  put 
his  face  so  close  to  the  glass  that  his  excited  breath 

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caused  an  immediate  blur  of  vapour  on  the  frozen 
pane.  Then  he  turned  about.  He  crouched  against 
the  angle  of  the  doorway  and  peered  around  the 
corner  of  the  wall,  up  the  lane  through  which  he 
had  just  come.  He  wanted  to  find  out  whether 
anybody  was  following  him.  He  was  a murderer. 

He  had  killed  the  secretary  of  the  local  branch  of 
the  Farmers’  Union  during  the  farm  labourers’  strike 

at  M in  the  previous  October.  Since  then  he 

had  been  hiding  out  in  the  mountains  with  a group 
of  men  who  were  evading  arrest,  brigands,  criminals 
and  political  refugees.  He  had  just  come  into  Dub- 
lin half  an  hour  previously  on  a goods  train.  The 
conductor  of  the  train  was  a member  of  the  Revo- 
lutionary Organization,  to  which  McPhillip  himself 
had  belonged  when  he  shot  the  Farmers’  Union 
Secretary. 

He  saw  nobody  of  account  in  the  lane.  An  old 
woman  crossed  near  the  far  end.  She  had  a black 
shawl  about  her  head  and  in  her  hand  a milk  jug, 
with  a corner  of  the  shawl  drawn  across  its  mouth 
to  keep  out  the  rain.  A man  was  singing  forlornly, 
facing  the  kerb  on  the  right-hand  side,  with  his  cap 
held  out  in  front  of  him.  He  was  begging,  but  no- 
body took  any  notice  of  him. 

McPhillip’s  eyes  darted  about  everywhere,  with 
the  speed  and  acuteness  of  one  who  has  perfected 
his  detective  sensibilities  by  necessity  and  long 
practice.  The  street  was  quite  safe.  He  sighed 

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and  turned  about  to  survey  the  interior  of  the 
House. 

He  was  a man  of  middle  size  and  slightly  built, 
but  his  shoulders  were  broad  enough  for  a giant. 
His  body  narrowed  down  from  the  shoulders,  so  that 
the  hips  and  waist  were  totally  out  of  proportion 
to  the  upper  part  of  the  body.  His  right  leg  opened 
outwards  in  a curve  below  the  knee  and  he  placed 
the  toe  of  the  right  foot  on  the  ground  before  the 
heel  when  he  walked,  so  that  his  walk  had  the 
crouching  appearance  of  a wild  animal  stalking  in  a 
forest.  His  face  was  thin  and  sallow.  His  hair 
was  black  and  cropped  close.  His  eyebrows  were 
black  and  bushy.  His  eyelashes  were  long  and  they 
continually  drooped  over  his  eyes.  When  his  eye- 
lashes drooped  his  eyes  were  blue,  sharp  and  fierce. 
But  when  he  raised  his  lashes  for  a moment  to  think 
of  something  distant  and  perhaps  imaginary,  his 
eyes  were  large,  wistful  and  dreamy.  They  were 
soft  and  full  of  a sorrow  that  was  unfathomable. 
His  jaws  were  square,  sharp  and  fleshless.  His  lips 
were  thin  and  set  tightly.  This  gave  the  lower  part 
of  his  face  a ferocious  appearance.  His  nose  was 
long  and  straight.  His  cheeks  were  hollow  and  on 
the  cheekbones  a bright  flush  appeared  when  he  was 
seized  with  a fit  of  hard,  dry  coughing  which  he 
tried  to  suppress. 

He  was  dressed  in  a shabby  pair  of  wrinkled  navy 
blue  trousers  and  a fawn-coloured,  shabby  raincoat, 

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buttoned  lip  around  his  throat  like  a uniform.  His 
boots  were  old  and  thin.  They  creaked  with 
moisture  soaked  in  through  their  torn  soles.  He 
wore  a grey  tweed  cap.  Under  his  left  armpit  he 
carried  an  automatic  pistol  in  a leather  holster.  The 
pistol  hung  from  a lanyard  that  was  suspended  from 
his  neck. 

As  he  stood  looking  in  through  the  door,  the  fin- 
gers of  his  right  hand  were  thrust  in  between  the 
first  and  second  buttons  of  his  raincoat.  The  tips 
of  the  fingers  rested  on  the  cold  butt  of  the  auto- 
matic. 

Within  the  hall  three  old  men  were  waiting  in  a 
row  outside  the  closed  glass  window  of  the  office  on 
the  right-hand  side.  The  nearest  old  man  to  the 
door  wore  a brown  pauper’s  uniform.  Both  his 
eyes  had  cataracts  and  he  seemed  to  be  on  the 
point  of  going  into  a faint.  He  was  leaning  on  a 
stick  and  his  head  kept  bobbing  like  a man  that  is 
in  a drunken  stupor  and  is  on  the  point  of  falling 
asleep.  The  second  old  man  wore  a torn  old  dress 
suit.  He  looked  like  a waiter  thrown  out  of  em- 
ployment through  old  age.  He  had  a sharp  lean 
face.  The  farthest  old  man  was  dressed  in  a med- 
ley of  unspeakable  rags  and  he  shook  his  body  con- 
tinually trying  to  scratch  himself  on  the  insides  of 
his  clothes.  The  three  of  them  stood  in  silence. 
Beyond  them,  four  more  concrete  steps  led  to  a long 
passage  through  the  building.  A corridor  crossed 

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the  passage  at  the  far  end.  Men  passed  along  the 
corridor  now  and  again  in  groups. 

McPhillip  was  about  to  push  through  the  door 
when  the  glass  panel  was  pulled  up  with  a screech 
and  a man’s  head  appeared  at  the  window.  The 
man  cracked  his  thumb  and  forefinger  and  motioned 
the  nearest  old  man  to  approach,  the  old  man 
dressed  in  rags.  The  old  man  started  and  cried 
out  in  a weak,  childish  voice:  “Oh  be  Janey  I’d 
forgotten.”  Smiling  weakly  and  muttering  to  him- 
self he  began  to  rummage  among  his  rags.  The  man 
at  the  window  looked  at  him,  pursed  up  his  lips 
angrily  and  disappeared. 

Presently  he  reappeared  from  around  the  corner 
of  the  office.  He  came  up  to  the  old  man  and  stood 
in  front  of  him  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  and 
his  legs  spread  wide  apart.  His  neat  blue  trousers 
were  perfectly  creased.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
so  that  his  diamond  sleeve  links  and  the  large 
diamond  in  his  tie  flashed  in  the  half  darkness. 
His  hair  was  glued  to  his  head  with  perfumed  oil. 
Its  odour  pervaded  the  whole  hallway.  He  looked 
at  the  old  man  with  an  expression  of  mixed  contempt 
and  anger.  The  two  other  old  men  began  to  snigger 
fawningly  and  tried  to  appear  to  have  absolutely 
no  connection  with  the  ragged  old  man. 

At  last  the  ragged  old  man  found  a red  handker- 
chief, and  in  his  excitement  he  could  not  undo  the 
knot  that  bound  it  together  in  a ball. 

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“Here,”  he  cried,  holding  out  the  handkerchief 
to  the  clerk,  “there  are  five  pennies  and  four  half- 
pennies there.  Me  fingers  are  all  stiff  with  the 
rheumatism  an’  I can’t  untie  it.  Maybe  ye’d  do 
it  for  me  for  th’  honour  o’  God?” 

Then  he  looked  up  into  the  clerk’s  face  with  his 
mouth  open.  But  the  clerk,  without  taking  any 
notice  of  the  handkerchief,  was  looking  at  the  old 
man’s  face  as  if  he  were  going  to  strike  him.  The 
old  man  began  to  tremble. 

“Get  out  of  here,”  yelled  the  clerk  suddenly  in 
a thunderous  voice. 

Then  he  became  motionless  again.  The  old  man 
began  to  babble  and  shiver.  He  turned  about  and 
shuffled  down  the  steps  to  the  door,  scratching  his 
shoulder-blades  against  his  clothes  as  he  moved.  He 
went  down  two  steps  and  then  paused  uncertainly 
and  looked  behind  him.  Then  he  shuddered,  took 
another  step,  lost  his  balance  and  slipped.  He 
slithered  to  tire  door  on  his  buttocks.  The  other 
two  old  men  began  to  laugh  and  titter.  The  clerk 
scowled  at  them.  “What  are  ye  laughing  at?”  he 
cried.  They  stopped  immediately.  “Hey  you,”  he 
continued,  pointing  his  finger  at  the  ragged  old  man, 
who  had  reached  the  street  outside  and  was  standing 
irresolutely  on  the  kerb  looking  back  over  his 
shoulders.  “If  I catch  you  here  again,  you  old 
fool,  I’ll  hand  you  over  to  the  police.  Go  away  now 

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and  get  into  the  workhouse  where  you  belong. 
Huh!” 

The  old  man  wrinkled  up  his  monkey-like  face 
into  a grimace  of  surprise  and  misery.  He  cast  a 
terrified  look  at  the  haggard  face  of  McPhillip,  that 
peered  at  him  out  of  the  angle  of  the  wall  to  the 
left  of  the  door.  Then  he  mumbled  something 
and  set  off  down  the  lane  at  a broken  trot.  The 
other  two  old  men  in  the  hall  began  to  whisper  to 
one  another  as  soon  as  the  clerk  turned  his  bacn 
and  walked  back  into  the  office. 

“Be  the  holy,”  said  one,  “he  should  be  shot,  wha?” 

“So  he  should,”  whined  the  other  old  man,  “the 
dirty,  rotten — to  be  goin’  about  like  that.” 

Then  they  shuffled  up  to  the  window  for  their 
bed  tickets.  The  clerk  swore  at  them  and  called 
them  filthy  names,  but  they  kept  apologizing  to 
him  and  sniggering. 

While  the  two  old  men  were  getting  their  bed 
tickets  at  the  window,  McPhillip  pushed  through 
the  door  quietly  and  slipped  along  the  hall.  He 
turned  to  the  right  at  the  far  end.  He  stopped 
there.  He  leaned  up  against  the  wall  casually,  took 
a cigarette  from  his  pocket  and  lit  it.  He  looked 
around  examining  the  passage.  It  was  a wide  cor- 
ridor with  a concrete  floor  and  walls  of  glazed  brick. 
There  were  windows  at  regular  intervals  opening 
on  a large  yard  at  the  rear  of  the  building.  In  the 

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alcoves  formed  by  the  windows  seats  were  placed. 
By  the  opposite  wall  there  were  spittoons  placed 
at  equal  distances  of  three  yards  or  so.  Men  were 
strewn  along  the  passage  in  groups,  some  sitting  on 
the  seats  conversing  in  low  voices,  others  walking 
up  and  down  singly  or  in  pairs,  with  their  eyes 
on  the  ground  and  their  hands  muffed  behind  their 
backs  in  their  coat  sleeves.  They  were  all  wretch- 
edly dressed  and  melancholy.  Some  were  quite 
young,  but  their  faces  had  already  assumed  the 
dejected  appearance  that  is  usually  found  only  in 
the  faces  of  old  men  who  have  been  disappointed  in 
life. 

Puffing  at  his  cigarette  slowly,  McPhillip  exam- 
ined the  hall  and  the  men  who  passed,  with  the 
same  quick,  sharp  cunning  with  which  he  had  exam- 
ined the  street.  Again  he  could  see  nobody  that 
aroused  his  interest.  Again  he  sighed  gently  and 
moved  away  to  the  right.  He  entered  a large  room 
through  a swing  door. 

The  room  was  crowded.  It  was  furnished*  with 
long  tables  and  wooden  forms,  like  a cafe  for  the 
working  class.  There  were  newspapers  on  some 
tables.  On  others  there  were  games  or  draughts 
and  dominoes.  Men  sat  at  all  the  tables.  Some 
read.  Others  played  games.  The  majority,  how- 
ever, sat  in  silence,  their  eyes  staring  vacantly  in 
front  of  them,  contemplating  the  horror  of  their 
lives.  Those  who  could  find  no  seat  stood  about 

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the  tables,  watching  the  progress  of  the  games, 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  their  faces 
set  in  an  expression  of  stolid  and  absent-minded  in- 
difference. 

McPhillip  walked  about  from  one  table  to  an- 
other, his  cigarette  in  his  left  hand,  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  clutching  the  butt  of  his  automatic, 
between  the  two  top  buttons  of  his  raincoat.  No- 
body noticed  him.  The  melancholy  eyes,  that  were 
raised  casually  to  look,  saw  only  another  shabby 
wreck  like  themselves.  Even  had  his  identity  been 
suddenly  disclosed  by  means  of  a loud  trumpet  to 
the  men  in  that  room,  it  is  questionable  whether  the 
news  would  have  occasioned  excitement  in  more 
than  a few  breasts.  Casual  workers,  casual  crim- 
inals and  broken  old  men,  their  connection  with 
the  ordered  scheme  of  civilized  life,  with  its  moral 
laws  and  its  horror  of  crime,  was  so  thin  and  weak 
that  they  were  unable  to  feel  the  interest  that  mur- 
der arouses  in  the  tender  breasts  of  our  wives  and 
sisters. 

McPhillip  examined  the  room  carefully  without 
discovering  what  he  wanted.  Then  he  walked  out 
into  the  corridor  again.  He  entered  another  room 
that  was  used  by  the  occupants  of  the  lodging-house 
for  the  purpose  of  writing  letters.  That  room  was 
empty.  Then  he  descended  a stairway  to  the  lava- 
tories and  bathrooms.  Here  men  were  shaving  and 
washing  themselves.  He  walked  about  and  dis- 

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covered  nobody.  He  came  up  again  into  the  cor- 
ridor and  entered  the  dining-room. 

The  dining-room  was  very  large  and  furnished 
with  small  deal  tables  and  long  forms  of  the  same 
material.  The  wooden  floor  was  covered  with  saw- 
dust, like  the  floor  of  a slum  public-house.  Here 
and  there  the  sawdust  was  mixed  with  refuse  that 
had  been  swept  from  the  tables.  At  the  far  end 
of  the  room  a great  number  of  men  were  gathered 
around  an  immense  range,  some  with  frying-pans 
in  their  hands  awaiting  their  turn  to  cook,  others 
rushing  about  attending  to  cooking  utensils  that 
were  already  on  the  range.  They  all  had  knives, 
spoons  and  forks  in  their  hands.  They  were 
jostling,  perspiring,  cursing,  laughing  and  scratching 
themselves.  There  was  a great  din  of  voices  and 
a smell  of  food  and  of  human  bodies. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  there  was  a counter 
and  behind  the  counter  a large  bright  kitchen,  shin- 
ing bright  with  white  crockery,  polished  brasses 
and  the  clean  white  uniforms  of  the  women  who 
served  in  it.  Three  young  women  were  there  cook- 
ing and  serving  food,  for  the  lodgers  who  had  not 
the  means  or  the  inclination  to  prepare  their  own 
food.  These  lodgers  stood  at  the  counter  buying 
tea,  bread  and  butter,  cooked  eggs  and  meat.  They 
also  purchased  knives,  forks,  spoons  and  salt,  be- 
cause these  necessities  were  not  provided  by  the 
management  in  the  lodging-house,  owing  to  the 

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moral  character  of  the  lodgers,  except  on  payment 
of  a fixed  sum,  which  was  returned  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  meal,  when  the  articles  were  handed 
back  at  the  counter. 

McPhillip  walked  down  across  the  room  to  the 
far  side.  He  had  seen  the  man  he  sought  at  the 
first  glance.  He  walked  straight  to  a table  by  the 
wall  at  the  far  side.  At  that  table  a young  man  of 
thirty  or  so  was  eating  his  supper. 

He  ate  off  an  enamelled  plate  that  was  loaded 
high  with  potatoes,  coarse  cabbage  and  a large  piece 
of  boiled  bacon.  A great  steam  rose  from  the  plate 
and  twisted  up  towards  the  ceiling  in  front  of  the 
man’s  face.  The  man  was  dressed  in  a suit  of  blue 
dungarees,  with  a white  muffler  wound  round  and 
round  his  neck.  He  had  a close-cropped  bullet- 
shaped head,  fair  hair  and  dark  eyebrows.  The  eye- 
brows were  just  single  tufts,  one  over  the  centre 
of  each  eye.  They  grew  long  and  narrowed  to  a 
single  hair,  like  the  ends  of  waxed  moustaches. 
They  were  just  like  ominous  snouts,  and  they  had 
more  expression  than  the  dim  little  blue  eyes  that 
were  hidden  away  behind  their  scowling  shadows. 
The  face  was  bronzed  red  and  it  was  covered  by 
swellings  that  looked  like  humps  at  a distance. 
These  humps  came  out  on  the  forehead,  on  the 
cheekbones,  on  the  chin  and  on  either  side  of  the 
neck  below  the  ears.  On  close  observation,  how- 
ever, they  almost  disappeared  in  the  general  glossy 

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colour  of  the  brownish  red  skin,  that  looked  as 
if  there  were  several  tiers  of  taut  skin  covering  the 
face.  The  nose  was  short  and  bulbous.  The  mouth 
was  large.  The  lips  were  thick  and  they  fitted 
together  in  such  a manner  that  the  mouth  gave 
the  face  an  expression  of  being  perpetually  asleep. 
His  body  was  immense,  with  massive  limbs  and 
bulging  muscles  pushing  out  here  and  there,  like 
excrescences  of  the  earth  breaking  the  expected 
regularity  of  a country-side.  He  sat  upright  in  his 
seat,  with  his  large  square  head  bolted  on  to  his 
squat  neck,  like  an  iron  stanchion  riveted  to  a 
deck. 

He  stared  straight  in  front  of  him  as  he  ate. 
He  held  his  fork  by  the  handle,  upright,  in  his 
left  hand.  He  rapped  the  table  with  the  end  of  the 
fork,  as  if  he  were  keeping  time  with  the  rapid 
crunching  of  his  jaws.  But  as  soon  as  he  saw 
McPhillip,  his  jaws  stopped  moving  and  the  hand 
holding  the  fork  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  table. 
His  face  closed  up  and  his  body  became  absolutely 
motionless. 

McPhillip  sat  down  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table.  He  did  not  speak  and  he  did  not  express 
recognition  by  any  sign  or  movement  of  his  body. 
But  he  knew  the  man  quite  well.  They  were  bosom 
friends.  The  man  was  Gypo  Nolan,  McPhillip’s 
companion  during  the  strike  of  farm-labourers,  when 

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McPhillip  had  killed  the  secretary  of  the  Farmers’ 
Union.  Gypo  Nolan  had  once  been  a policeman 
in  Dublin,  but  he  had  been  dismissed  owing  to  a 
suspicion  at  Headquarters  that  he  was  in  league  with 
the  Revolutionary  Organization  and  had  given  in- 
formation to  them  relative  to  certain  matters  that 
had  leaked  out.  Since  then  he  had  been  an  active 
member  of  the  Revolutionary  Organization  and  had 
always  acted  with  Francis  Joseph  McPhillip,  so  that 
they  were  known  in  revolutionary  circles  as  the 
“Devil’s  Twins.” 

“Well,  Gypo,”  said  McPhillip  at  last,  “how  is 
things?” 

McPhillip’s  voice  was  cracked  and  weak,  but  it 
had  a fierce  sincerity  that  gave  it  immense  force, 
like  the  force  in  the  chirping  of  a tiny  bird  whose 
nest  is  being  robbed. 

“Did  ye  leave  them  messages  I gave  ye?”  he 
continued  after  a moment,  during  which  he  gasped 
for  breath.  “I  didn’t  hear  anythin’  from  home  since 
I saw  ye  that  evenin’  I had  to  take  to  the  hills. 
What’s  doin’,  Gypo?” 

Gypo  stared  in  silence  for  several  moments, 
breathing  slowly,  with  open  mouth  and  distended 
eyes.  He  never  spoke.  Then  he  made  a strange 
sound,  like  a suppressed  exclamation,  in  his  throat. 
He  slowly  cut  a large  potato  in  four  pieces  with 
his  knife.  He  transferred  one  piece  to  his  mouth 

19 


THE  INFORMER 


on  the  tip  of  his  knife.  He  began  to  chew  slowly. 
Then  he  stopped  chewing  suddenly  and  spoke.  It 
was  a deep  thunderous  voice. 

“Where  the  divil  did  ye  come  from,  Frankie?” 
he  said. 

“It  don’t  matter  where  I come  from,”  cried  Mc- 
Phillip  in  an  irritated  tone.  “I  got  no  time  to  waste 
passin’  the  compliments  o’  the  season.  I came  in 
here  to  get  wise  to  all  the  news.  Tell  us  all  ye 
know.  First,  tell  me  . . . wait  a minute.  How 
about  them  messages?  Did  ye  deliver  them? 
Don’t  mind  that  grub.  Man  alive,  are  ye  a savage 
or  what?  Here  I am  with  the  cops  after  me  for 
me  life  an’  ye  go  on  eatin’  yer  spuds.  Lave  down 
that  damn  knife  or  I’ll  plug  ye.  Come  on,  I’m 
riskin’  me  life  to  come  in  here  and  ask  ye  a question. 
Get  busy  an’  tell  me  all  about  it.” 

Gypo  sighed  easily  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  the 
back  of  his  right  sleeve.  Then  he  put  his  knife 
on  the  table  and  swallowed  his  mouthful. 

“Ye  were  always  a cranky  fellah,”  he  growled, 
“an’  ye  don’t  seem  to  be  improvin’,  with  the  spring 
weather.  I’ll  tell  ye  if  ye  hold  on  a minute.  I 
delivered  yer  messages,  to  yer  father  an’  mother 
and  to  the  Executive  Committee.  Yer  ol’  man  gev 
me  dog’s  abuse  and  drov’  me  outa  the  house,  an’ 
he  cursed  ye  be  bell,  book  an’  candle  light.  Yer 
mother  followed  me  out  cryin’  an’  put  half  a quid 
into  me  hand  to  give  to  ye.  I had  no  way  o’  findin’ 

20 


THE  INFORMER 


ye  an’  I was  hungry  mesel’,  so  I spent  it.  Well ” 

McPhillip  interrupted  with  a muttered  curse. 
Then  he  was  seized  with  a fit  of  coughing.  When 
the  fit  was  over,  Gypo  went  on. 

“Well,”  continued  Gypo.  “Ye  know  yersel’  what 
happened  with  the  Executive  Committee.  They 
sent  a man  out  to  tell  ye.  I wouldn’t  mind  them 
sendin’  a letter  to  the  papers  sayin’  they  had  nothin’ 
to  do  with  the  strike.  It  ud  only  be  all  swank  any- 
way, an’  who  cares?  But  I declare  to  Christ  they 
near  had  me  plugged  when  I went  in  to  report. 
Commandant  Gallagher  was  goin’  to  send  down  men 
to  plug  ye  too,  but  lots  o’  the  other  fellahs  got  around 
him  and  he  didn’t.  Anyway  I was  fired  out  o’  the 
Organization  as  well  as  yersel’,  although  ye  know 
yersel’,  Frankie,  that  I had  nothin’  to  do  with  firin’ 
that  shot.  An’ ” 

“What  the — ” began  McPhillip  angrily,  rapping 
the  table;  but  again  he  began  to  cough.  Gypo  went 
on  without  taking  notice  of  the  coughing. 

“The  police  arrested  me,  but  they  could  find  no 
evidence,  so  they  gev  me  an  awful  beatin’  and  threw 
me  out.  I ben  wanderin’  around  since  without  a dog 
to  lick  me  trousers,  half  starvin’!” 

“What  do  I want  to  know  about  the  Executive 
Committee?”  grumbled  McPhillip  angrily,  recover- 
ing his  breath.  “I  don’t  want  to  hear  anything 
about  executive  committees  or  revolutionary  organi- 
zations, me  curse  on  the  lot  o’  them.  I want  to  hear 

21 


THE  INFORMER 

about  me  father  an’  mother.  What  about  ’em, 
Gypo?” 

Gypo  expanded  his  thick  under  lip  and  stared  at 
McPhillip  with  distended  eyes.  His  eyes  seemed  to 
hold  an  expression  of  sadness  in  their  dim  recesses, 
but  it  was  hard  to  say.  The  face  was  so  crude  and 
strong  that  the  expression  that  might  be  termed 
sadness  in  another  face  was  mere  wonder  in  his. 
For  the  first  time  he  had  noticed  the  pallor  of  Mc- 
Phillip’s  face,  the  hectic  flush,  the  fits  of  coughing, 
the  jerky  movements  and  the  evident  terror  in  the 
eyes  that  used  to  be  so  fearless. 

“Frankie,”  cried  Gypo  in  his  deep,  slow,  passion- 
less voice,  “yer  sick.  Man  alive,  ye  look  as  if  ye 
were  dyin’.” 

McPhillip  started  and  looked  about  him  hurriedly 
as  if  he  expected  to  see  death  there  behind  his  back 
waiting  to  pounce  upon  him. 

“Have  a bite,”  continued  Gypo,  “ ’twill  warm 
ye  up.” 

At  the  same  time  he  himself  began  to  eat  again 
fiercely,  like  a great  strong  animal,  tackling  the  soli- 
tary meal  of  its  day.  The  large  red  hands  with  just 
stumps  of  fingers  held  the  knife  and  fork  so  pon- 
derously that  those  frail  instruments  seemed  to  run 
the  danger  of  being  crushed,  like  some  costly  thing 
picked  up  on  the  tip  of  an  elephant’s  trunk.  But 
McPhillip  did  not  follow  the  invitation.  He  looked 
angrily  at  the  food  for  several  seconds  with  wrinkled 

22 


THE  INFORMER 

forehead,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  remember  what 
it  was  and  what  it  was  for,  and  then  he  spoke 
again. 

“I  know  I’m  dyin’,  Gypo,  an’  that’s  why  I came 
in.  I got  the  consumption.”  Gypo  started.  He 
was  struck  at  that  moment  by  an  insane  and  mon- 
strous idea.  “I  came  in  to  get  some  money  from 
me  mother.  An’  I wanted  to  see  her  before  I die. 
Good  God,  it  was  awful,  Gypo,  out  there  on  them 
hills  all  the  winter,  with  me  gun  in  me  hand  night 
an’  day,  sleeping  in  holes  on  the  mountains,  with 
the  winds  blowin’  about  me  all  night,  screechin’  like 
a pack  o’  devils,  an’  every  blast  o’  them  winds  spoke 
with  a man’s  voice,  an’  I lyin’  there  listenin’  to 
them.  Good  God ” 

Again  he  began  to  cough  and  he  had  to  stop. 
Gypo  was  not  listening  to  him.  He  had  not  heard 
a word.  A monstrous  idea  had  prowled  into  his 
head,  like  an  uncouth  beast  straying  from  a wilder- 
ness into  a civilized  place  where  little  children  are 
alone.  He  did  not  hear  McPhillip’s  words  or  his 
coughing,  although  the  monstrous  idea  was  in  relation 
to  McPhillip. 

“So  I said  to  mesel’,  that  I might  as  well  chance 
me  arm  be  cornin’  into  town  as  lyin’  out  there, 
starvin’  to  death  with  the  cold  an’  hunger  an’  this 
cough.  So  I came  along  here  to  see  ye,  Gyp,  first, 
so  as  to  get  a bead  on  what’s  doin’.  Have  they  got 
a guard  on  the  house?” 


23 


THE  INFORMER 

“Divil  a guard,”  replied  Gypo  suddenly,  and  then 
he  started  and  stretched  out  his  right  hand  towards 
McPhillip  with  a little  exclamation.  His  eyes  were 
wild  and  his  mouth  was  wide  open  like  the  mouth 
of  a man  looking  at  a spectre.  Gypo’s  mind  was 
looking  at  that  uncouth  ogre  that  was  prowling  about 
in  his  brain. 

McPhillip  leaned  across  the  table.  Gradually  his 
eyes  narrowed  into  an  intense  stare  of  ferocity. 
His  lips  curled  up  and  his  forehead  wrinkled.  He 
began  to  tremble. 

“What  is  it,  Gypo?”  he  hissed.  “Tell  me,  Gyp, 
or  I’ll  . . .”  He  made  a rapid  movement  with  the 
wrist  of  the  hand  that  clutched  his  automatic.  “The 
cops  are  after  me,  Gyp,  an’  I’m  dyin’,  so  I don’t 
mind  how  I use  the  twenty-four  rounds  I got  left. 
I’ve  notched  their  noses  so  they  can  make  a quare 
hole.  There’s  one  for  mesel’  too.”  He  shuddered 
as  if  at  the  thought  of  a tender  pleasure.  Then  he 
scowled  fiercely  and  half  drew  the  butt  of  his  pistol 
from  his  pocket.  His  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 
“Tell  me  the  truth  about  how  things  stand  without 
any  jig  actin’  or  I’ll  plug  ye.” 

He  glared  at  Gypo,  his  hand  on  his  pistol,  his 
right  arm  rigid  to  the  shoulder,  ready  to  draw  the 
gun  and  fire  in  one  movement.  Gypo  stared  him  in 
the  eyes  without  any  emotion,  either  of  fear  or  of 
surprise.  With  the  nail  of  his  right  forefinger  he 
abstracted  a string  of  meat  from  between  two  teeth. 

24 


THE  INFORMER 

He  spluttered  with  his  lips  and  then  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  The  spectre  had  suddenly  gone  out  of 
his  mind  without  his  being  able  to  make  head  or  tail 
of  it. 

“No  use  talkin’  like  that  to  me,  Frankie,”  he 
murmured  lazily.  “The  only  reason  why  I didn’t 
want  to  say  anythin’  was  because  I didn’t  like 
to  . . Again  the  ghoulish  thing  came  into  his 
mind  and  he  stopped  with  a start.  But  almost  im- 
mediately he  continued  in  a forced  voice.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  be  ashamed  of  that  spectre  as  if  he  had 
already  given  way  to  the  horrid  suggestions  it  made, 
although  he  did  not  at  all  comprehend  those  sug- 
gestions. “I  didn’t  like  to  maybe  send  ye  into  harm’s 
way.  Ye  see,  I don’t  know  if  there’s  a guard  on 
yer  father’s  house  or  if  there’s  not.  I generally 
knock  around  Titt  Street,  but  I haven’t  been  near 
No.  44  since  that  night  I went  there  with  yer  message 
an’  yer  ol’  man  told  me  never  to  darken  his  door 
again.  There  may  be  a guard  on  it  or  there  may 
be  no  guard  on  it.  But  if  I told  ye  there  wasn’t  and 
ye  went  there  and  got  nabbed,  ye  know ” 

“What  are  ye  drivin’  at,  Gypo?”  growled  Mc- 
Phillip  suspiciously. 

“Nothin’  at  all,”  said  Gypo  with  a great  deep 
laugh.  “But  it’s  how  ye’ve  come  in  on  me  so  sudden, 
an’  I don’t  know  right  what  I’m  talkin’  about.  Ye 
see,  I’m  all  mixed  up  for  the  last  six  months,  wan- 
derin’ around  here,  without  a mate  that  ud  give  me 

25 


THE  INFORMER 


a tanner  for  a flop  if  I were  to  die  o’  the  cold  lyin’  in 
O’Connell’s  Street  with  a foot  o’  frost  on  the  ground. 
They ” 

“Oh,  shut  up  about  yersel’  an’  the  frost  an’  tell  us 
somethin’.” 

“Now  don’t  get  yer  rag  out,  Frankie.  I was 
cornin’  to  that.  I was  cornin’  to  it,  man.  They  held 
me  up  in  the  street  the  other  day  and  had  a long 
talk  about  ye.  They’re  after  ye  yet  all  right.  Ser- 
geant McCartney  an’  another  fellah  from  Sligo  was 
there.  That  Detective-Sergeant  McCartney  is  a bad 
lot.  Huh,  he’s  a rascal,  an’  no  goin’  behind  a wall 
to  say  it.  He  swore  to  me  that  he’d  get  ye  dead  or 
alive.  ‘I  wouldn’t  care  much  for  yer  job  then,’  says 
I to  him,  just  like  that,  an’  he  gave  me  an  eye  that  ud 
knock  ye  stiff.” 

“He  says  he’s  goin’  to  get  me,  did  he?”  murmured 
McPhillip  dreamily.  Suddenly  his  mind  seemed  to 
wander  away  and  he  lost  interest  in  his  present  sur- 
roundings. His  eyes  rested  vacantly  on  the  table, 
about  a foot  away  to  the  right. 

Gypo  looked  hurriedly  at  the  spot  upon  which  Mc- 
Phillip’s  eyes  were  fixed.  He  saw  nothing.  He 
looked  back  again  at  McPhillip’s  face  and  wrinkled 
up  his  forehead.  Then  he  made  a noise  in  his  throat 
and  began  to  eat  once  more  with  great  rapidity.  He 
breathed  on  his  food,  to  cool  it,  as  he  put  it  into  his 
jaws.  He  made  noises. 

McPhillip  stared  at  the  table  for  a long  time.  His 
26 


THE  INFORMER 

right  hand  toyed  nervously  with  the  butt  of  his 
pistol.  His  left  hand  rapped  the  table.  Then  a 
strange  sparkle  came  into  his  eyes.  He  laughed  sud- 
denly. It  was  a strange  laugh.  It  made  Gypo  start. 

“What’s  th.e  matter,  Frankie?”  he  asked  in  a 
terrified  voice. 

“Nothin’  atall,”  said  McPhillip,  shaking  himself. 
“Gimme  somethin’  t’  eat.” 

He  began  to  eat  ravenously,  using  his  penknife  as  a 
knife  and  fork.  He  had  not  eaten  for  a long  time. 
He  did  not  taste  the  food  but  gulped  it  down  at  a 
great  speed. 

Gypo  ate  also,  but  he  kept  staring  at  McPhillip 
while  he  ate.  Every  time  his  wandering  little  eyes 
reached  McPhillip’s  eyes  they  narrowed  and  became 
very  sharp.  Then  he  would  roll  his  tongue  around 
in  his  cheek  and  make  a sucking  sound. 

At  last  McPhillip  stopped  eating.  He  wiped  his 
penknife  on  his  trousers  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

“Gypo,”  he  said  slowly,  “are  there  any  cops 
watchin’  our  house,  the  old  man’s  place  in  Titt 
Street?” 

Gypo  shook  his  head  three  times  in  reply.  His 
mouth  was  full.  Then  he  swallowed  his  mouthful, 
he  put  his  fork  to  his  forehead  and  set  to  thinking. 

“Lemme  see,”  he  said  at  last.  “Yeh.  They  had 
two  cops  watchin’  the  place  until  after  Christmas. 
Then  they  took  ’em  off.  They  didn’t  put  any  on 
since  as  far  as  I know,  but  I believe  that  a fellah  goes 

27 


THE  INFORMER 

around  there  now  an’  again  to  make  inquiries.  O’ 
course  they  might  have  secret-service  men  on  it  as 
well.  God  only  knows  who’s  givin’  information  to 
the  Government  now,  an’  who  isn’t.  Ye  never  know 
who  yer  talkin’  to.  I never  in  me  life  saw  anythin’ 
like  it.  Tell  ye  what,  Frankie,  the  workin’  class  is 
not  worth  fightin’  for.  They  think  yer  gone  to  the 
United  States,  but  all  the  same  it  might  be  dangerous 
goin’  down  there  now.  I’m  sorry  I have  no  money 
to  give  ye,  so  as  ye  could ” 

“Where  the  divil  did  ye  get  all  the  gab?”  cried 
McPhillip  suddenly,  looking  suspiciously  at  Gypo. 
“I  never  knew  ye  to  let  out  all  that  much  talk  in  a 
day,  or  maybe  a whole  week.  Are  ye  goin’  to  the 
university  now  in  yer  spare  time  or  what  ails  ye?” 

McPhillip  began  to  rap  the  table  again.  There 
was  silence.  Gypo  nonchalantly  transferred  the 
scraps  from  his  plate  to  his  mouth  on  the  flat  of  his 
knife.  When  the  plate  was  completely  cleaned  up 
he  rattled  the  knife  and  fork  on  to  it.  Then  he 
stuck  out  his  massive  chest  and  rubbed  his  palms 
along  it. 

Suddenly  McPhillip  swore  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 
He  stood,  as  if  in  a dream,  looking  at  the  table  for 
several  moments.  Gypo  watched  his  face,  with  his 
little  tufted  eyebrows  quivering.  At  the  same  time 
he  cleaned  his  teeth  with  his  left  thumb-nail.  At 
last  McPhillip  drew  in  a deep  breath  through  his 
teeth,  making  a noise  as  if  he  were  sucking  ice. 

28 


THE  INFORMER 

“Right,”  he  said,  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  table. 
“My  ould  fellah  is  at  home  now,  is  he?” 

“Yes,”  said  Gypo.  “I  saw  him  yesterday.  He 
was  over  in  the  ’Pool  on  a job,  but  he’s  back  this 
fortnight.  I think  he’s  workin’  on  a new  house  out 
in  Rathmines.” 

“Right,”  said  McPhillip  again.  Then  he  raised 
his  eyes,  looked  at  Gypo  fiercely  and  smiled  in  a 
curious  fashion.  “See  ye  again,  Gypo,  unless  the 
cops  get  me.” 

As  he  spoke  he  seemed  to  think  of  something.  His 
face  quivered  and  darkened.  Then  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  laughed  outright.  He  nodded  twice 
and  turned  on  his  heel.  He  strode  hurriedly  out  of 
the  room. 

Gypo  looked  after  him  for  a long  time  without 
moving.  He  had  finished  cleaning  his  teeth.  He 
just  stared  at  the  door  through  which  McPhillip  had 
disappeared.  Then  gradually  his  mind  began  to  fill 
with  suggestions.  His  forehead  wrinkled  up.  His 
body  began  to  fidget.  At  last  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 
He  collected  the  plate,  the  knife  and  fork  and  the 
salt.  He  walked  into  the  passage  and  put  them  in  a 
locker,  which  was  provided  by  the  management  for 
the  lodgers.  The  locker  did  not  belong  to  Gypo. 
He  had  no  locker  because  he  was  merely  a casual 
lodger  since  he  had  no  regular  income  to  pay  for  a 
bed  by  the  week.  The  locker  belonged  to  a carter 
of  Gypo’s  acquaintance.  Gypo  had  seen  the  man 

29 


THE  INFORMER 

put  his  next-day’s  dinner  in  the  locker  and  go  away 
without  turning  the  key.  Gypo  knew  also  that  the 
man  would  not  be  back  until  ten  o’clock  that  night. 
So  he  took  the  dinner. 

He  placed  the  things  in  the  locker  and  walked  away 
casually.  He  sat  on  the  corner  of  a seat  in  one  of 
the  alcoves.  He  rummaged  in  the  pockets  of  his  dun- 
garees and  collected  several  minute  scraps  of  cigar- 
ettes. He  carefully  unrolled  the  scraps,  collecting  all 
the  tobacco  in  the  palm  of  his  right  hand.  Then  he 
begged  a cigarette  paper  from  an  old  man  who  sat 
beside  him.  The  old  man  had  none  and  said  so  with 
an  angry  curse.  Gypo  wrinkled  his  forehead  and 
sniffed  as  if  he  were  smelling  the  old  man.  Then 
he  turned  to  a young  man  who  passed  and  requested 
a cigarette  paper.  The  young  man  halted  and  sup- 
plied one  grudgingly.  Gypo  took  the  paper  in 
silence,  without  a word  or  a nod  of  thanks.  He 
rolled  his  cigarette  and  lit  it  at  the  gas  jet.  Then  he 
sat  down  again,  crossed  his  legs,  let  his  body  go  limp 
and  began  to  smoke. 

His  ears  seemed  to  stick  out  very  far,  as  he  lay 
back  limply  in  the  seat,  in  the  half-darkness  of  the 
corridor. 

For  a minute  the  odour  and  the  taste  of  the  to- 
bacco held  him  in  a state  of  enjoyment.  He  did  not 
think  either  of  the  fact  that  he  had  no  bed  for  the 
night  or  of  his  meeting  with  McPhillip.  Then  grad- 
ually his  forehead  began  to  wrinkle  and  furrow.  His 

30 


THE  INFORMER 

little  tufted  eyebrows  began  to  twitch.  When  he 
pulled  at  his  cigarette  his  face  was  enshrouded  in  a 
bright  glow  and  the  humps  on  his  face  stood  out, 
glistening  and  smooth.  He  began  to  shift  about  in 
his  seat.  First  he  uncrossed  his  legs.  Then  he 
crossed  them  again.  He  began  to  tap  his  knee  with 
his  right  hand.  He  sighed.  His  cigarette  wore  out 
until  it  was  burning  his  lips  without  his  becoming 
aware  of  the  fact.  Then  he  spluttered  it  out  of  his 
mouth  on  to  his  chest  and  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 

He  stood  looking  at  the  ground  with  his  hands 
deep  in  his  trousers  pockets.  He  seemed  to  be  deep 
in  thought,  but  he  was  not  thinking.  At  least  there 
was  no  concrete  idea  fixed  in  his  mind.  Two  facts 
rumbled  about  in  his  brain,  making  that  loud  prime- 
val noise,  which  is  the  beginning  of  thought  and 
which  tired  people  experience  when  the  jaded  brain 
has  spun  out  the  last  threads  of  its  energy.  There 
were  two  facts  in  his  brain.  First,  the  fact  of  his 
meeting  with  McPhillip.  Second,  the  fact  of  his 
having  no  money  to  buy  a bed  for  the  night. 

These  two  facts  stood  together  in  an  amorphous 
mass.  But  he  could  not  summon  up  courage  to 
tackle  them  and  place  them  in  proper  juxtaposition 
and  reason  out  their  relationship.  He  just  stood 
looking  at  the  ground. 

Then  a drunken  bookmaker’s  clerk  named  Shana- 
han brushed  against  him.  He  stepped  aside  with  a 
muttered  oath.  He  pulled  one  hand  from  his  pocket 

31 


THE  INFORMER 

to  strike,  with  the  fingers  extended  in  the  shape  of  a 
bird’s  claws.  Shanahan,  doubled  up  in  the  middle 
by  the  helplessness  of  intoxication,  stared  at  Gypo 
with  blue  eyes  that  had  gone  almost  completely  red. 
Gypo  turned  away  with  a shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
At  any  other  time  he  would  gladly  have  availed  him- 
self of  this  opportunity  of  begging  a shilling  from 
Shanahan.  Shanahan  was  always  good  for  the  loan  of 
a shilling  when  he  was  drunk.  A shilling  would  pro- 
cure Gypo  a bed  for  the  night  and  leave  a little  for  a 
light  breakfast  in  the  morning.  Ten  minutes  ago,  a 
recontre  of  this  sort  would  have  been  a godsend  to 
Gypo.  But  now,  those  two  cursed  facts  stood  in 
his  brain,  making  him  unconscious  of  everything 
else. 

He  walked  out  of  the  House  and  up  the  lane  to- 
wards B — Road. 

He  walked  with  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
slowly,  with  his  thighs  brushing  on  the  insides  as  he 
walked.  He  seemed  to  haul  his  big  boots  after  him, 
bringing  them  as  near  the  ground  as  possible.  His 
hips  moved  up  and  down  as  his  feet  went  forward. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  ground.  His  lips  were  dis- 
tended outwards.  His  little  torn,  brown,  slouch  hat 
was  perched  incongruously  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
much  too  small  for  his  large  square  skull,  with  the 
brim  turned  up  closely  all  around.  When  a squall  of 
wind,  laden  with  little  sharp  hailstones,  struck  him 
across  the  face  and  body,  his  clothes  puffed  out  and 

32 


THE  INFORMER 

he  curled  up  his  short  stubby  nose  in  an  angry  grin. 

He  was  looking  into  the  window  of  a saddler’s  shop 
in  Dame  Street,  when  the  relationship  between  the 
two  facts  became  known  to  him.  He  was  looking 
at  a pair  of  bright  spurs  and  his  face  contorted 
suddenly.  His  eyes  bulged  as  if  he  were  taken  with 
a fit  of  terror.  He  looked  about  him  suspiciously, 
as  if  he  were  about  to  steal  something  for  the  first 
time.  Then  he  rushed  away  hurriedly.  He  moved 
through  lanes  and  alleyways  to  the  river.  He  crossed 
the  street  to  the  river  wall.  He  leaned  his  elbows 
on  the  wall  and  spat  into  the  dark  water.  With 
his  chin  resting  on  his  arms,  he  stood  perfectly  still, 
thinking. 

He  was  contemplating  the  sudden  discovery  that 
his  mind  had  made,  about  the  relationship  between 
his  having  no  money  for  a bed  and  his  having  met 
Francis  Joseph  McPhillip,  who  was  wanted  for  mur- 
der in  connection  with  the  farm-labourers’  strike  at 

M in  the  previous  October.  A terrific  silence 

reigned  within  his  head. 

Now  and  again  he  looked  around  him  with  a kind 
of  panting  noise.  He  snorted  and  smelled  the  air 
and  screwed  up  his  eyes.  Then  he  leaned  over  the 
wall  again  and  rested  his  chin  on  his  crossed  hands. 
He  was  that  way  for  half  an  hour.  Then  at  last  he 
drew  himself  up  straight.  He  stretched  his  arms 
above  his  head.  Fie  yawned.  He  stuck  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets.  He  stared  at  the  ground. 

33 


THE  INFORMER 

Then  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  he  walked  away 
at  the  same  slouching  pace  as  before. 

He  crossed  the  river  and  traversed  a maze  of  side 
streets,  with  his  eyes  always  on  the  ground,  until  he 
reached  the  corner  of  a dark  side  street,  that  had  a 
bright  lamp  hanging  over  a doorway,  half-way  down 
on  the  right-hand  side.  That  was  a police-station. 
He  stared  at  the  lamp  with  his  eyes  wide  open  for 
several  moments.  Almost  a minute.  Then  he  said 
“Huh”  out  loud.  Then  he  looked  around  him  cau- 
tiously on  all  sides. 

The  street  was  empty.  Rain  drizzled  slowly.  He 
examined  the  street,  the  warehouses  on  his  side  of  the 
street,  the  blank  wall  on  the  other  side.  Then  his 
eyes  came  back  to  the  bright  lamp  that  hung  above 
the  door  of  the  police-station.  He  sighed  deeply  and 
began  to  walk  slowly,  ever  so  slowly  and  ponder- 
ously, towards  the  lamp. 

He  walked  up  the  steps,  steadily,  one  at  a time, 
making  a loud  noise.  He  kicked  the  swing  door  open 
with  his  foot  without  taking  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets.  In  the  hallway,  a constable  in  a black, 
cone-shaped,  night  helmet  stood  facing  him,  pulling 
on  his  gloves.  Gypo  halted  and  stared  at  the  con- 
stable. 

“I  have  come  to  claim  the  twenty  pounds  reward 
offered  by  the  Farmers’  Union  for  information  con- 
cerning Francis  Joseph  McPhillip,”  he  said  in  a 
deep,  low  voice. 


34 


CHAPTER  II 


At  thirty-five  minutes  past  seven  Francis 
Joseph  McPhillip  shot  himself  dead  while 
trying  to  escape  from  No.  44  Titt  Street,  his 
father’s  house.  The  house  had  been  surrounded  by 
Detective-Sergeant  McCartney  and  ten  men.  Hang- 
ing by  his  left  hand  from  the  sill  of  the  back-bed- 
room  window  on  the  second  floor,  McPhillip  put 
two  bullets  into  McCartney’s  left  shoulder.  While 
he  was  trying  to  fire  again,  his  left  hand  slipped  and 
lost  its  hold.  The  pistol  muzzle  struck  the  edge  of 
the  sill.  The  bullet  shot  upwards  and  entered  Mc- 
Phillip’s  brain  through  the  right  temple. 

When  they  picked  him  out  of  the  orange  box  in 
the  back  garden  where  he  fell,  he  was  quite  dead. 


35 


CHAPTER  III 


T TWENTY-FIVE  MINUTES  PAST  EIGHT  GyPO 


left  the  police-station  by  a door  in  the  rear 


of  the  building.  In  his  pocket  he  carried 
twenty  pounds  in  Treasury  notes,  the  reward  for 
information  concerning  Francis  Joseph  McPhillip. 

He  walked  quickly  along  a narrow  passage  into  a 
dark  lane.  The  lane  was  empty.  So  it  appeared  at 
first.  But  as  Gypo  stood  hidden  in  the  doorway  of 
an  old  empty  house,  piercing  the  darkness  with  wild 
eyes,  he  heard  a footstep.  The  footstep  made  him 
start.  It  was  the  first  human  footstep  he  had  heard, 
the  first  sound  of  his  fellow  human  beings,  since  he 
had  become  an  informer  and  . . . and  an  outcast. 

Immediately  he  felt  that  the  footstep  was  menac- 
ing, as  if  he  were  certain  that  it  belonged  to  some- 
body that  was  tracking  him.  How  strange!  Within 
the  course  of  ninety  minutes  the  customary  sound  of 
a human  footstep  had,  by  some  evil  miracle,  become 
menacing.  Ninety  minutes  ago,  his  ears  would  not 
have  challenged  the  sound  of  a human  footstep,  no 
more  than  they  would  have  challenged  the  sound  of 
the  breath  coming  normally  from  his  lungs.  But 


36 


THE  INFORMER 

now  they  pricked  into  attention  at  the  trudging 
shuffle  that  approached  from  the  left.  His  heart 
began  to  pant. 

Of  course  it  was  nobody  of  consequence.  It  was 
only  a ragged  old  woman  of  ill  fame,  with  a de- 
bauched face  and  melancholy  eyes.  She  paused 
drunkenly  in  front  of  him,  muttering  something  un- 
intelligible. Then  she  bared  her  ragged  teeth.  She 
spat  and  passed  on  without  speaking.  Was  it  an 
omen?  Gypo  did  not  notice  that  it  was.  He  merely 
listened  to  the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  splashing 
carelessly  through  the  pools. 

Then  he  looked  ahead  of  him  furtively  and  moved 
off  with  the  careful  listening,  stooping  movement  of 
a man  wandering  alone  at  night  in  a forest  gorge 
where  lions  are  about.  He  turned  a corner  and  came 
face  to  face  with  a blaze  of  light  and  a street  with 
shops  and  crowds  of  people  going  about.  At  first  he 
shuddered  with  fear.  Then  he  swore  and  drew  in  a 
deep  breath.  What  had  he  to  fear?  He  knew  the 
street  well.  Who  was  going  to  interfere  with  him? 
His  giant  fists  clawed  up,  like  talons  enraged,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  throat  and  shoulders  stiffened. 
He  imagined  himself  throttling  these  enemies  who 
might  be  inclined  to  assault  him.  He  felt  comforted, 
reminded  by  this  pressure  of  his  muscles,  of  his 
enormous  strength.  He  settled  his  little  round  hat 
jauntily  on  the  back  of  his  head.  He  stuck  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets.  He  swung  his  legs  and 

37 


THE  INFORMER 

rolled  like  a sailor  out  of  the  lane,  arrogantly,  into 
the  glare  of  the  street. 

At  the  same  slow,  swinging,  rolling  gait,  he  crossed 
the  street  through  the  traffic  without  pausing,  with- 
out stepping  aside,  without  looking  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left.  Motor-cars,  carts,  bicycles  and  wagons 
swerved  to  avoid  him.  He  went  through  them  with- 
out looking  at  them,  like  a great  monster  walking 
through  a cloud  of  ants,  that  are  carrying  on  their 
futile  and  infinitesimal  labours  about  his  feet.  They 
turned  towards  him  to  curse,  but  those  that  saw  his 
face  gaped  and  passed  into  the  night  with  the  curse 
unuttered.  His  face,  with  the  humps  on  it  shining 
in  the  glare  of  the  lamps,  was  like  a subtle  mask.  It 
was  so  ...  so  dead. 

He  walked  straight  across  the  pavement  into  a 
public-house.  He  kicked  the  swing  door  open  with 
his  foot,  without  taking  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets, 
just  as  he  had  entered  the  police-station.  He  put  a 
pound  note  on  the  counter  with  a slap  of  his  palm 
and  uttered  the  one  word:  ‘Tint.”  He  stared  at  the 
counter  until  the  drink  was  served.  He  put  the 
measure  to  his  head,  opened  his  throat  and  swallowed 
the  contents  at  one  draught.  He  uttered  a deep 
sigh  and  handed  the  empty  glass  to  the  barman. 
He  nodded.  When  he  received  another  pint  and 
his  change,  he  walked  over  to  the  corner  and  sat 
down. 

Now  he  definitely  set  out  to  form  a plan  of  action. 

38 


THE  INFORMER 

It  had  been  a habit  with  McPhillip  and  himself. 
Whenever  they  had  done  any  “stunt,”  they  immedi- 
ately went  into  a public-house,  got  drinks  and  set 
about  forming  plans  for  an  alibi. 

“Never  bother  about  yer  ‘getaway’  until  yer  job 
is  done,”  used  to  be  a motto  of  McPhillip’s. 

Suddenly  Gypo  realized  what  a clever  fellow  Mc- 
Phillip must  really  have  been.  He  used  to  make 
plans  so  easily.  They  jumped  to  his  mind  one  after 
the  other,  like  lightning.  Gypo  had  never  given  any 
thought  to  the  matter  of  plans.  He  often  used  to  say 
to  McPhillip  with  a queer  glassy  look  in  his  eyes: 
“Mac,  you  bite  the  easy  side  o’  the  cheese.  I got  to 
do  all  the  rough  work  an’  you  do  all  the  thinkin’.” 
Strikes  me  you  get  away  with  it  easy,  mate.” 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  realized  the  difficulty  of 
making  a plan  without  McPhillip.  When  he  had  to 
think  it  out  for  himself  it  appeared  to  be  devilish 
work.  His  brain  got  all  in  a tangle  and  he  could 
make  a beginning  nowhere.  He  gathered  himself 
together  several  times,  with  set  lips  and  stiffened 
back,  like  a horse  stiffening  for  a great  tug  at  an 
immense  weight,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  could  not 
overcome  the  weight  that  seemed  to  fall  on  his  brain 
every  time  his  sensibilities  approached  it,  probing 
tentatively  for  information.  Sitting  on  a deal  bench 
at  the  rear  of  the  bar,  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his 
pint  of  porter  in  his  right  hand,  held  in  front  of  him, 
with  his  elbow  resting  on  his  knee  and  the  froth  of 

39 


THE  INFORMER 

the  porter  dripping  from  the  glass  slowly  on  to  the 
tip  of  his  raised  boot,  he  stared  at  the  ground,  in  an 
agony  of  complicated  thought.  His  little  tattered 
brown  hat,  perched  on  the  top  of  his  -skull,  looked 
like  a magic  charm,  endowed  with  reason  and  know- 
ledge, mounting  guard  over  his  stupid  strength. 

He  had  not  even  cleared  his  brain  for  a beginning 
with  this  devilish  work  of  making  a plan  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Katie  Fox.  She  had  sat 
down  beside  him  before  he  knew  she  was  there.  He 
was  so  immersed  in  his  struggles  that  she  nudged 
him  and  spoke  before  he  was  aware  of  her  pre- 
sence. 

“How’s  things,  Gypo?”  she  cried  in  her  hard  thin 
voice,  as  she  nudged  him  in  the  ribs.  “Are  ye  flush 
enough  to  give  us  a wet?” 

Gypo  jumped  to  his  feet,  spilling  half  his  pint.  He 
gazed  at  her  with  fright  in  his  eyes  and  his  chest 
heaved.  Then  he  recognized  her  and  sat  down 
immediately,  flurried  and  confused  by  his  display  of 
excitement. 

“Hello,  Katie,”  he  muttered,  pretending  to  be 
vexed,  “ye  shouldn’t  come  in  that  way  on  a fellah. 
I look  around  me  an’  there  ye  are  proddin’  me  in  the 
ribs.  Why  the  divil  didn’t  ye  shout  same  as  ye 
always  do?” 

She  put  the  backs  of  her  thin,  red-veined  hands  on 
her  hips  and  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  partly  real, 
partly  born  of  that  love  of  emphatic  gesture  and 

40 


THE  INFORMER 

movement  and  speech  which  is  a peculiar  character- 
istic of  the  women  of  the  Dublin  slums.  Katie  was 
a woman  of  the  slums.  Her  father  had  been  an  em- 
ployee of  the  Corporation  and  her  mother  was  a 
charwoman.  As  a girl  Katie  worked  in  a biscuit 
factory.  Her  own  beauty  of  body  and  the  grinding 
toil  in  the  factory  made  her  discontented.  She 
joined  the  Revolutionary  Organization.  That  was 
six  years  ago.  After  that,  her  first  plunge  from  the 
straight  path  of  the  tremendous  respectability  and 
conservatism  of  the  slum  woman,  she  was  led  by 
excess  of  feeling  into  one  pitfall  after  another. 
Finally  she  passed  out  of  the  ranks  of  respectability 
altogether  by  being  expelled  from  the  Revolutionary 
Organization  on  a charge  of  public  prostitution. 
Now  she  had  become  an  abandoned  woman,  known 
as  such  even  among  the  prostitutes  of  the  brothel 
quarter,  a drug  fiend,  a slattern,  an  irresponsible 
creature.  Traces  of  her  young  beauty  still  remained 
in  the  deep  blue  eyes,  that  were  melancholy  and 
tired  and  twitched  at  the  edges,  in  her  long  lean 
figure  now  grown  emaciated,  in  her  black  hair  that 
strayed  carelessly  about  her  face  from  beneath  the 
rim  of  her  ragged  red  hat.  But  the  mouth,  that  tell- 
tale register  of  vice,  had  completely  lost  the  sumptu- 
ous but  delicate  curves  of  innocent  girlhood  and 
blossoming  maturity.  The  lips  hung  down  at  the 
sides.  They  were  swollen  in  the  middle.  Their 
colour  had  died  out  and  had  been  renewed  with  loud 

41 


THE  INFORMER 

vulgarity  by  cheap  paint.  The  poor  tormented  soul 
peered  out  of  the  young  face,  old  before  the  years  had 
time  to  wrinkle  it,  sad,  hard  and  stupefied. 

She  thrust  out  her  little  chin  and  turned  her  head 
sideways,  turning  down  the  corners  of  her  lips  farther 
at  one  side  of  her  mouth. 

“I  thought  as  much,”  she  said  slowly,  contorting 
her  lips  and  face  as  she  spoke.  “That’s  why  I came 
in  unknownst  and  sat  down  beside  ye.  I saw  ye  be 
chance,  me  fine  buck,  as  I was  talkin’  to  Biddy  Mac 
over  at  the  corner  opposite  Kane’s.  So  I just 
prowled  in  to  see  ye  on  the  quiet.  But  it’s  clear  as 
daylight  that  ye  don’t  want  to  see  me.  Not  while  ye 
got  money  to  fill  yersel’  with  porter.  It  was  a 
different  story,  wasn’t  it,  this  mornin’  when  ye  begged 
the  price  of  a cup  o’  tay  off  me,  an’  me  that  didn’t 
see  the  colour  of  a half-crown  for  three  days  runnin’. 
Oh  then — — ” 

“Now  shut  yer  gob,  will  ye,”  interrupted  Gypo  ex- 
citedly. “It’s  just  like  ye  takin’  a man  up  wrong 
that  way.  Sure  I didn’t  mane  anythin’  like  that 
atall.  Only  ye  just  came  in  on  me  all  of  a sudden. 
What  are  ye  havin’?” 

Katie  looked  at  him  in  high  dudgeon,  still  with  her 
chin  thrust  out,  her  head  turned  sideways,  her  lips 
turned  downwards  and  her  hands  on  her  hips.  She 
murmured:  “Double  Gin,”  without  moving  her  eyes 
from  Gypo’s  face.  Gypo  arose  and  slouched  up  to 
the  counter  for  the  drink.  Her  eyes  followed  him 

42 


THE  INFORMER 

shrewdly  and  she  kept  nodding  her  head  slowly  at 
his  immense  back. 

Her  relationship  with  Gypo  was  of  that  irregular 
kind  which  is  hard  to  describe  by  means  of  one  word. 
She  was  undoubtedly  not  his  wife  and  in  the  same 
manner  she  could  not  be  called  his  mistress.  But 
their  relationship  partook  both  of  the  nature  of  lawful 
marriage  and  of  the  concubinage  that  is  sanctified 
by  natural  love.  Katie  loved  Gypo  because  he  was 
strong,  big,  silent,  perhaps  also  because  he  was 
stupid  and  her  ready  slum  “smartness”  could  always 
outwit  his  lumbering  brain.  Whenever  Gypo  had 
any  money  he  spent  it  with  her.  Sometimes  when  he 
was  without  any  money,  she  brought  him  home  with 
her  and  provided  him  with  his  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing. On  the  whole  they  were  good  friends.  During 
the  past  six  months  after  Gypo  had  been  expelled 
from  the  Revolutionary  Organization  and  left  with- 
out friends  or  money  or  employment,  Katie  had  stood 
between  him  and  death  from  exposure  or  starvation. 
She  loved  him  in  her  own  amazing  way.  The  last 
remains  of  her  womanhood  loved  him  as  she  might 
have  loved  a mate.  But  those  shreds  of  love  lived 
charily  among  the  rank  weeds  of  vice  that  flourished 
around  them.  It  was  only  at  times  that  they  peeped 
out  and  covered  the  desert  waste  of  her  soul  with  the 
soft  warmth  and  brilliance  of  their  light.  Each 
kindly  act  of  pity  for  the  lumbering  giant  was  coun- 
teracted by  a score  of  other  acts  that  were  vicious 

43 


THE  INFORMER 

and  cruel.  While  Gypo,  with  the  nonchalance  of  the 
healthy  strong  man,  took  her  for  granted  as  if  she 
were  a natural  contrivance  of  life,  like  fresh  air  or 
food.  He  would  only  notice  her  absence  when  she 
was  needed. 

He  brought  the  gin  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  took 
it  in  silence.  She  sipped  it  slowly,  holding  it  within 
an  inch  of  her  lips,  staring  at  the  ground  as  she 
drank,  shivering  now  and  again,  as  if  the  drink  were 
ice  cold.  Gypo  watched  her  suspiciously  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eyes. 

“What  brought  ye  around  here  anyway?”  he  said 
at  last. 

He  was  extremely  irritated  that  she  should  have 
come  in  on  him,  just  at  that  moment,  when  he  was 
trying  to  make  a plan,  when  he  had  the  money  of  his 
betrayal  hot  on  his  person,  without  being  yet  em- 
balmed by  a plausible  excuse  for  its  presence.  He 
was  irritated,  but  in  a confused  and  ignorant  way. 
He  had  not  reasoned  out  a plausible  excuse,  even  for 
his  irritation. 

Katie  held  her  empty  glass  upside  down  in  her 
hand  and  looked  at  him,  with  her  blue  eyes  almost 
shut. 

“Why,  what’s  the  matter  with  ye,  kiddo?”  she 
asked  arrogantly,  encouraged  by  the  gin.  “Why 
shouldn’t  I knock  around  here  if  I want  to.  I’m  not 
employed  by  a charitable  institution  at  so  much  an 
hour  to  keep  out  o’  yer  honour’s  way,  ha,  ha,  when  it’s 

44 


THE  INFORMER 

yer  lordship’s  pleasure  to  come  into  this  pub. 
There’s  no  law  agin  me  cornin’  around  this  part  o’ 
the  city  at  this  hour,  is  there?”  She  worked  herself 
into  a fit  of  anger  gradually  as  she  spoke.  She  had 
an  idea  that  Gypo  was  concealing  something  im- 
portant from  her  and  that  her  arrival  at  that  moment 
gave  her  some  power  over  him.  That  peculiar  intui- 
tion of  the  slum  woman  could  pierce  the  surface  of 
Gypo’s  embarrassment,  but  without  being  able  to 
probe  into  the  real  nature  of  it.  She  pushed  back 
her  coat  with  her  left  hand  and  put  the  back  of  her 
hand  against  her  reddish  frayed  blouse  below  the 
heart.  How  slight  her  breasts  werel 
“Now  Katie — ” began  Gypo. 

But  she  interrupted  him  immediately.  She  had 
been  only  waiting  for  him  to  begin  to  speak  in  order 
to  interrupt  him.  She  was  quite  happy  when  given 
the  opportunity  of  a “barge”  of  this  description. 

“Go  on  with  ye,”  she  cried,  “pug  nose!  I know 
ye,  Ya.  You’re  bum  all  right.  Yer  all  right  as  long 
as  ye  get  nothin’.  But  as  soon  as  ye  can  smell  yer- 
sel’  after  a good  meal  an’  there  a gingle  in  yer  rags, 
ye  stick  yer  nose  into  the  air  an’  ye  know  nobody. 
D’ye  know  what  I’m  goin’  to  tell  ye,  Gypo?  D’ye 
know  what  I’m  goin’  to  tell  ye?  Yer  a mane,  lyin’, 
deceitful  twister  an’  I got  yer  measure  from  now  on. 
Don’t  look  for  nothin’  from  me  from  now  on,  my  fine 
bucko.  No  then;  ’twill  be  little  use  for  ye.” 

Gypo  became  nervous  and  shifted  his  huge  body. 

45 


THE  INFORMER 

He  wanted  to  let  his  left  hand  fly  out  and  hit  her  in 
the  jaw.  One  slight  blow  would  make  her  senseless. 
But  he  had  never  struck  a woman,  owing  to  some 
obscure  prejudice  or  other.  Still,  he  was  terribly 
tired  of  her.  Now  that  he  had  this  money  on  his 
person,  without  as  yet  having  decided  what  to  do 
with  it,  he  wanted  to  be  free  from  her. 

“You  shut  up,”  he  cried  angrily,  “or  I’ll  fix  ye. 
Haven’t  I given  ye  a drink?”  Then  he  added  half- 
heartedly: “D’ye  want  another  drink?” 

Katie  was  still  staring  at  him.  Suddenly  a change 
came  over  her.  Something  suggested  itself  to  her 
peculiar  reason  and  she  changed  her  attitude. 

“Don’t  mind  what  I said  now,  Gypo,”  she  con- 
tinued in  a low  mournful  voice,  looking  at  the  ground 
with  hanging  lower  lip,  like  a person  overwhelmed 
and  utterly  defeated  by  some  persistent  calamity. 
“God  Almighty,  the  world  is  so  hard  that  a person 
loses  her  mind  altogether.  Misery,  misery,  misery 
an’  nothin’  but  misery.  Your  as  bad  off  as  mesel’, 
Gypo,  so  ye  know  what  I mane.  No  man  has  pity 
on  us.  Every  hand  is  agin  us  because  we  have  got 
nothin’.  Why  is  that,  will  ye  tell  me,  Gypo?  Is 
God  Himself  agin  us  too?  Ha,  ha,  o’  course  we 
were  both  of  us  Communists  and  members  o’  the 
Revolutionary  Organization,  so  we  know  there’s  no 
God.  But  supposin’  there  was  a God,  what  the  hell 
is  He  doin’ ” 


46 


THE  INFORMER 

“Katie,”  cried  Gypo  angrily,  “none  o’  that  talk. 
Lave  God  alone.” 

“God  forgive  me,  yer  right,”  cried  Katie,  begin- 
ning to  sob.  But  she  pulled  herself  together  sud- 
denly with  surprising  speed  and  turned  to  Gypo 
almost  sharply.  Her  eyes  narrowed  slightly  and  a 
quaint  weird  smile  lit  up  her  face.  There  was  a 
trace  of  beauty  in  her  face  under  the  influence  of 
the  smile,  a trace  of  beauty  and  merriment.  “Tell 
us  where  ye  got  all  the  money,  Gypo.  Ye  had 
none  this  mornin’.” 

Gypo  started  in  spite  of  himself  and  glanced  at  her 
in  terror.  He  struggled  violently,  trying  to  formu- 
late an  excuse  for  his  sudden  wealth.  He  fumed 
within  himself  for  not  having  made  a plan.  Uncon- 
sciously he  cursed  McPhillip,  whom  he  had  sent  to 
his  death,  for  not  having  made  a plan.  He  looked  at 
Katie  with  glaring  eyes  and  open  lips.  Then  he  bent 
towards  her,  tried  to  speak  and  said  nothing.  But 
she  misunderstood  him. 

“Ya,”  she  said,  “I  knew  ye  were  yellow.  Have 
ye  robbed  a church  or  what,  an’  are  ye  afraid  of  bein’ 
turned  into  a goat  be  the  priests?” 

“Shut  up,”  he  hissed  suddenly,  gripping  at  the 
word  “robbery”  and  hooking  a plan  on  to  it.  It  was 
a customary  word,  a friendly  thing  that  he  recog- 
nized, with  which  he  felt  at  home.  He  bent  down, 
with  quivering  face,  eager  to  hurl  out  the  words  of 

47 


THE  INFORMER 


his  plan  before  he  could  forget  them  again.  “It 
wasn’t  a church.  It  was  a sailor  off  an  American 
ship.  I went  through  him  at  the  back  o’  Cassidy’s 
pub  in  Jerome  Street.  But  if  ye  say  a word  ye  know 
what  yer  goin’  to  get.” 

“Who?  Me?”  Katie  laughed  out  loud  and  looked 
at  him  with  emphatic  scorn  over  her  shoulder. 
“What  d’ye  take  me  for?  An  informer  or  what?” 

“Who’s  an  informer?”  cried  Gypo,  gripping  her 
right  knee  with  his  left  hand.  The  huge  hand  closed 
about  the  thin  frail  knee  and  immediately  the  whole 
leg  went  rigid.  Katie’s  whole  body  shrivelled  at  the 
mere  touch  of  the  vast  strength. 

There  was  silence  for  a second.  Gypo  stared  at 
Katie  with  a look  of  ignorant  fear  on  his  face.  The 
word  had  terrified  and  infuriated  him.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  heard  it  uttered  in  the  new  sense 
that  it  now  held  for  him.  Katie,  hypnotized  by  the 
face,  panted  and  looked  back  at  him. 

“What  are  ye  talkin’  about  informin’  for?” 
panted  Gypo  again,  tightening  his  grip  on  her  knee. 
He  had  not  meant  to  hurt.  He  merely  wanted  to 
give  emphasis  to  his  words. 

“Lemme  go,”  screamed  Katie,  unable  to  endure 
the  pain  any  longer  and  terrified  by  the  look  in 
Gypo’s  face  and  by  his  strange  behaviour. 

Gypo  let  go  immediately.  The  barman  came 
striding  over,  wiping  his  hands  in  his  apron.  He 
pointed  toward  the  door.  Gypo  got  to  his  feet  and 

48 


THE  INFORMER 

stared  at  the  barman,  glad  to  have  a man  in  front  of 
him,  against  whom  he  could  vent  his  ignorant  rage. 
He  lowered  his  head  and  he  was  about  to  rush  for- 
ward when  Katie  hung  on  to  him  and  cried  out. 

“Come  on,  Gypo,”  she  cried  rapidly,  “let’s  get 
out  of  here.  Let  him  alone,  Barney.  He’s  got  a 
few  pints  on  him.  He  didn’t  mane  any  harm. 
Come  on,  kid.” 

Gypo  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  out  back- 
wards by  the  right  hand  into  the  street.  They  stood 
together  on  the  kerbstone,  with  Katie’s  arm  en- 
twined in  his. 

“Come  on  up  to  Biddy  Burke’s  place,”  she  whis- 
pered in  a friendly  tone.  “Come  on  up.” 

In  front  stretched  a main  road,  brilliantly  lighted 
and  thronged  with  people.  The  light,  the  people, 
the  suggestion  of  gaiety  and  of  freedom  attracted 
Gypo.  To  the  rear  stretched  a dark,  evil-smelling 
lane.  It  repelled  him.  There  was  where  Katie 
wanted  to  bring  him,  down  towards  the  slum  district 
and  the  brothel  quarter.  Down  there  were  his  own 
haunts,  people  who  knew  him.  He  feared  the  dark- 
ness, the  lurking  shadows,  the  suggestion  of  men 
hiding  in  alleyways  to  attack  him.  Out  there  in 
front  he  could  wander  off,  among  strange  people  who 
did  not  care  a straw  about  informers. 

“Come  on  Gyp,  down  to  Biddy’s  and  buy  us  a 
sniff,”  murmured  Katie  entreatingly,  in  a soft  voice. 
“Yer  flush,  aren’t  ye?  I know  well  them  American 

49 


THE  INFORMER 

sailors  carry  a quare  wad  around  with  ’em.  Let’s 
walk  along.  I’m  perished  with  the  cold.” 

“No,”  muttered  Gypo  in  a surly  voice.  “I’m  goin’ 
down  to  the  House  to  book  a bed  for  the  night.” 

He  now  remembered  with  pleasure  that  the  reason 
for  his  going  to  the  police-station  was  the  fact  that 
he  wanted  money  for  a bed.  So  why  not  go  and  buy 
a bed?  It  was  a good  excuse  to  get  rid  of  her. 

“What  are  ye  talkin’  about  a bed  for?”  cried 
Katie  angrily,  clutching  at  his  arm.  Then  her  voice 
softened  again.  There  was  an  eager  glitter  in  her 
eyes.  “Sure  it’s  not  thinkin’  about  a bed  ye  are 
when  ye  got  money  in  yer  pocket.  Haven’t  I got 
a bed  anyway,  an’  if  it’s  not  good  enough  for  ye,  sure 
we  can  get  a bed  at  Biddy’s,  seein’  ye  have  money  in 
yer  pocket.” 

“I  don’t  want  yer  bed,”  snarled  Gypo,  “an’  I’m 
not  goin’  near  Biddy  Burke’s.  I been  robbed  by  the 
thievin’  old  robber  often  enough.” 

“Ye  don’t  want  me  bed,  don’t  ye?”  cried  Katie, 
losing  her  temper  again  completely.  “Ye  were  glad 
enough  to  have  it  last  week  when  I brought  ye  in 
outa  the  rain  like  a drownded  rat.  Wha’?” 

“Now  I’ll  give  ye  nothin’  for  yer  imperence,” 
grumbled  Gypo.  “Yer  too  ignorant.  That’s  what 
ye  are.” 

She  moved  up  under  his  chin  and  held  her  two 
clenched  fists  to  his  jaws.  They  looked  white  and 
tiny  against  the  size  of  his  face. 

50 


THE  INFORMER 

“All  right,”  she  hissed,  “you  watch  out  for  yersel’, 
Gypo  Nolan.” 

She  turned  on  her  heel  and  went  off  at  a fierce 
walk  to  the  left,  muttering  curses  as  she  disappeared 
rapidly  into  the  darkness.  Gypo  stared  after  her, 
listening.  He  strained  his  neck  in  an  effort  to  catch 
a final  mumble  of  sharp  words  that  floated  up  to  him 
through  the  dark  lane,  as  her  obscure  figure  drifted 
around  a corner.  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  a gasp  as  if  he  had  just  watched  a valuable 
possession  suddenly  drop  over  a cliff.  With  his 
hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  he  stared  at  the 
ground. 

“Look  here,  Katie,”  he  called  out  suddenly,  reach- 
ing out  his  right  hand  impotently  towards  the  corner 
off  the  lane,  around  which  she  had  swept.  Then  he 
put  his  hand  back  into  his  pocket  and  gripped  the 
tight  wad  of  Treasury  notes.  He  wanted  now  to 
give  her  some  money.  She  had  been  good  to  him. 
He  began  to  walk  up  the  lane  slowly.  There  was  no 
need  to  hurry.  He  knew  where  to  find  her.  He 
must  not  let  her  go  like  that. 

But  he  had  not  gone  ten  yards  before  he  halted 
again.  He  turned  about  and  walked  back  quickly 
into  the  main  road.  He  had  suddenly  remembered 
a terrifying  thing. 

Supposing  somebody  were  to  come  into  Biddy 
Burke’s  and  say  that  Frank  McPhillip  had  been 
killed  owing  to  information  being  given  to  the 

51 


THE  INFORMER 

police?  They  were  sure  to  say  that.  They  would 
see  him  there  with  money  in  his  pocket.  They 
would  suspect.  . . . 

He  turned  to  the  right,  past  the  corner  of  the  main 
road.  He  went  twenty  yards  down  the  street  and 
then  brought  his  two  feet  together  like  a soldier 
coming  to  a halt  on  parade.  He  wheeled  inwards, 
still  in  the  same  mechanical  manner,  towards  a shop 
window.  He  stood  at  east,  clasping  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back  in  military  manner.  Somehow,  it 
gave  peace  to  his  distracted  thoughts,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  given  over  the  responsibility  of  his  thoughts 
and  actions  to  an  imaginary  superior  officer. 

Into  his  resting  mind  pleasant  memories  came, 
distant  pleasant  memories  like  day-dreams  on  a 
summer  day,  dreamt  on  the  banks  of  a rock-strewn 
river,  among  the  flowering  heather.  They  were 
memories  of  his  youth.  They  came  to  him  in  a 
strange  bewildered  manner,  as  if  afraid  of  the  dark, 
ferocious  mind  into  which  they  came.  Gypo  stared 
at  them  fiercely,  with  bulging  lips,  as  if  they  were 
enemies  taunting  him.  Then  gradually  he  softened 
towards  them.  Then  a mad  longing  seized  him  for 
the  protection  of  the  environment  of  his  youth,  the 
country-side  of  a Tipperary  village,  the  little  farm, 
the  big  red-faced  healthy  peasant  who  was  his 
father,  his  long-faced  kind-hearted  mother,  who 
hoped  that  he  would  become  a priest. 

He  wrinkled  up  his  face  and  looked  at  his  youth 

52 


THE  INFORMER 

intently.  He  stiffened  himself,  as  if  he  were  about 
to  hurl  himself  by  sheer  force  back  through  the  in- 
tervening years,  of  sin  and  sorrow  and  misery,  to  the 
peace  and  gentleness  and  monotony  of  life,  in  that 
little  village  at  the  foot  of  the  Galtees. 

Various,  intimate,  foolish,  little  recollections 
crowded  into  his  mind.  He  remembered  goats, 
asses’  foals,  rocks  in  a mountain  torrent,  a saying  of 
the  village  smith,  a glance  from  a girl,  his  first  drink 
of  wine  stolen  in  the  sacristy  of  the  parish  church 
while  he  was  serving  Mass.  Thousands  of  memories 
came  and  went  rapidly.  They  passed  like  soldiers 
before  a saluting-point,  some  gay,  some  sad,  some 
dim,  some  distinct  and  almost  articulate  as  if  they 
had  happened  a moment  ago. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a wet  daub  coming  down  each 
cheek.  He  started.  He  was  shedding  tears.  The 
horror  of  the  act  made  him  stare  wild  eyed.  He 
swore  aloud.  He  bared  his  teeth  of  their  covering 
of  thick  lips  and  ground  them.  His  youth  went 
out  like  a candle  that  is  quenched  by  a squall  in  a 
long  passage.  The  grinning  spectre  of  the  present 
became  real  once  more.  He  shut  his  mouth.  He 
sighed  very  deeply.  Putting  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets again,  he  walked  off  at  his  habitual  slouch,  with 
his  head  hanging  slightly  forward,  hung  on  the  pivot 
of  his  neck  like  a punchball. 

“I  must  make  a plan,”  he  said  to  himself  once 
more. 


53 


THE  INFORMER 

Somehow  he  was  convinced  that  the  Revolutionary- 
Organization  already  suspected  him  of  having  given 
information  concerning  McPhillip.  He  felt  that  he 
was  being  sought  for  already.  So  he  must  make  a 
plan.  He  must  have  a plausible  excuse. 

“If  ye  got  a good  aliby,”  McPhillip  used  to  say, 
“the  divil  himself  couldn’t  fasten  anythin’  on  ye.” 

But  how  was  he  going  to  get  an  alibi  for  himself? 
He  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  road  three  times 
irresolutely,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  He 
was  unable  to  think  of  anything.  His  mind  kept 
branching  off  into  the  contemplation  of  silly  things 
that  had  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  question,  the 
favourite  for  the  Grand  National  and  whether 
Johnny  Grimes,  the  comedian,  had  drowned  himself 
in  the  Canal  or  whether  he  had  been  murdered  and 
then  thrown  in;  the  two  main  questions  that  were 
agitating  the  Dublin  slums  just  then. 

At  one  moment  he  decided  to  go  to  the  Dunboy 
Lodging  House,  pay  for  a bed  and  go  to  sleep.  But 
immediately  he  was  terrified  at  this  suggestion. 
They  might  know  already  that  he  had  given  in- 
formation. Then  maybe,  while  he  was  asleep,  some- 
body would  be  sent  into  his  little  cell  with  a loaded 
stick  to  murder  him  in  his  sleep.  Or  they  might 
give  him  “the  bum’s  rush,”  breaking  his  neck  silently 
like  a rabbit’s  neck.  He  pictured  the  little  narrow 
wooden  cells  in  the  lodging  house,  the  silence  of  the 
night,  broken  only  by  the  dismal  sound  of  snoring  on 

54 


THE  INFORMER 

all  sides,  an  indiscriminate  number  of  unknown  peo- 
ple snoring  loudly,  dreaming,  grumbling,  snoring  and 
sleeping  in  all  directions,  while  “they”  approached 
silently  to  murder  him. 

He  shuddered.  Perspiration  stood  out  on  his 
forehead.  Eagerly,  with  relief,  he  decided  to  keep 
in  the  open,  where  he  could  use  his  hands  and  his 
strength.  If  he  were  going  to  be  murdered  he  would 
be  murdered  with  his  hands  gripping  a dead  throat. 

Then  at  last  he  stood  stock-still  and  thumped  him- 
self in  the  chest. 

“Well,  I’m  damned!”  he  cried.  “Amn’t  I an  aw- 
ful fool?  Why  didn’t  I think  of  it  before?  They’ll 
be  wonderin’  why  I’m  not  there  already.  Every- 
body in  the  town  must  ’a  heard  of  it  be  now,  an’ 
me  that  was  his  pal  an’  I not  there  to  say  a word  to 
his  mother.  They’ll  surely  suspect  something  if  I 
don’t  go  at  once.” 

Narrowing  his  eyes,  he  set  out  at  a smart  pace  in 
the  direction  of  McPhillip’s  home  in  Titt  Street. 
He  took  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets  and  swung  them 
by  his  sides  after  the  manner  of  a policeman.  He 
threw  his  head  back  and  towered  like  a giant  over 
those  whom  he  passed. 

He  passed  them,  almost  over  them,  like  a being 
utterly  remote,  a unique  creation. 


55 


CHAPTER  IV 


itt  Street  was  in  turmoil  like  an  ant- 


hill  that  has  been  rooted  up  by  the  ponderous 


hoof  of  a cow.  Under  the  scattered  street 
lamps,  between  the  parallel  rows  of  two-storied,  red- 
brick houses,  groups  of  wild-eyed  men  were  talking. 
The  pale  light  of  the  lamps  showed  the  drizzling  rain 
falling  like  steam  on  their  rough,  dirty  clothes,  on 
their  thick-veined  necks,  on  their  excited  faces,  on 
their  gnarled  hands  that  were  raised  in  gesticulation. 
Their  voices  filled  the  hollow  darkness  of  the  street 
with  a hushed  murmur,  that  rose  and  fell  turbulently, 
like  the  chattering  of  a torrent  coming  through 
rocks.  Their  voices  were  nervous,  as  if  they  awaited 
a storm  at  sea. 

Old  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads  flitted 
about  like  shadows.  They  darted  from  doorway  to 
doorway,  talking,  making  threatening  gestures  at 
something  remote,  crossing  themselves  with  their 
haggard  faces  turned  upwards  to  the  sky.  Young 
women  walked  arm-in-arm,  slowly,  up  and  down  the 
street.  They  looked  at  No.  44  as  they  passed  it,  in 
silence,  with  awe  in  their  open,  red  lips. 

No.  44  was  the  centre  of  interest.  The  horror 


56 


THE  INFORMER 

that  had  come  to  it  had  aroused  the  whole  street. 
It  had  aroused  the  whole  quarter.  Three  streets 
away,  bar  attendants  stood  gaping  behind  their 
counters,  while  some  man,  with  an  excited  red  face 
and  a big  mouth,  recounted  the  manner  of  Frank 
McPhillip’s  death,  with  oaths  and  frenzied  gesticu- 
lations. Everywhere,  in  the  streets,  in  the  public- 
houses,  in  the  tenement  kitchens,  where  old  red- 
nosed men  craned  forward  their  shrivelled  necks  to 
hear  the  dreadful  news,  one  word  was  whispered  with 
fear  and  hatred. 

It  was  the  word  “Informer.” 

Gypo  heard  that  word  as  he  reached  the  junction 
of  Titt  Street  and  Bryan  Road — a long  wide  road, 
lined  with  little  shops,  the  sidewalks  strewn  with 
papers,  little  heaps  of  dirt  in  the  gutters,  two  tram- 
car  lines  rusted  by  the  drizzling  rain,  groups  of 
loafers  at  every  lamp-post,  at  the  public-house  doors 
and  on  the  Canal  Bridge,  where  the  road  disappeared 
abruptly  over  the  horizon,  as  if  it  had  fallen  over  a 
precipice  into  space.  He  was  passing  Ryan’s  public- 
house  that  stood  at  the  corner,  half  in  Titt  Street, 
half  in  Bryan  Road.  The  word  came  to  him  through 
the  open  door  of  the  public  bar.  He  had  slowed 
down  his  pace  on  reaching  the  neighbourhood  and 
when  he  heard  the  word  uttered,  he  brought  his  left 
leg  up  to  the  right  and  instead  of  thrusting  it  for- 
ward for  another  pace,  he  dropped  it  heavily  but 
noiselessly  to  the  wet  pavement  of  red  and  white 

57 


THE  INFORMER 

glazed  brick  diamonds,  with  which  the  front  of  the 
public-house  was  decorated. 

A squall  of  wind  came  around  the  corner  just  then 
and  buffeted  him  about  the  body.  He  opened  his 
moubh  and  nostrils.  He  distended  his  eyes.  He 
thrust  forward  his  head  and  listened. 

“There  must  ’a  been  information  gev,  ’cos  how  else 
could  they — ” a tall  lean  man  was  saying,  as  he  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  sawdust-covered  floor,  hold- 
ing a pint  of  black  frothing  porter  in  his  right 
hand. 

Then  a burly  carter,  with  a grey  sack  around  his 
shoulders  like  a cape,  jostled  the  man  who  was  speak- 
ing, in  an  awkard  attempt  to  cross  the  floor  through 
the  crowd.  But  the  man  had  said  enough.  Gypo 
knew  that  they  were  talking  about  the  death  of  Fran- 
cis Joseph  McPhillip  and  that  they  suspected  that 
information  had  been  given. 

Again  the  idea  came  into  his  head  that  he  must 
form  a plan  without  a moment’s  delay.  But  the  in- 
side of  his  head  was  perfectly  empty,  with  his  fore- 
head pressing  against  it,  hot  and  congested,  as  if  he 
had  been  struck  a violent  blow  with  a flat  stick. 
The  idea  floundered  about  in  his  head,  repeating  it- 
self aimlessly,  like  a child  calling  for  help  in  an 
empty  house.  “No,”  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
gripped  his  clasp  knife  fiercely  in  his  trousers 
pocket,  “I  can’t  make  out  anythin’  standin’  here  in 
the  rain  in  front  of  a pub.  Better  go  ahead.” 

58 


THE  INFORMER 

He  hurled  himself  around  the  corner  against  the 
squall  into  Titt  Street  with  almost  drunken  violence. 
Then  he  realized  with  terror  the  fate  that  menaced 
him  if  . . . He  saw  the  groups  under  the  lamp- 
posts.  He  saw  the  flitting  women.  He  saw  the 
youths,  hushed,  strained,  expectant.  He  heard  the 
rumble  of  human  sound.  The  dark,  sombre,  mean 
street  that  had  been  familiar  to  him  until  now,  sud- 
denly appeared  strange,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it 
before,  as  if  it  had  suddenly  become  inhabited  by 
dread  monsters  that  were  intent  on  devouring  him. 
It  appeared  to  him  rather,  that  he  had  wandered, 
through  a foolish  error  of  judgment,  into  a strange 
and  hostile  foreign  country  where  he  did  not  know 
the  language. 

He  glared  about  him  aggressively,  as  he  walked  up 
the  street.  He  planted  his  feet  on  the  ground 
firmly,  walking  with  his  legs  wide  apart,  with  his 
shoulders  squared,  with  his  head  thrust  forward  into 
the  wind  like  the  jib  boom  of  a ship. 

As  he  was  passing  an  open  doorway  somebody 
cried  “hist.”  He  halted  like  a challenged  sentry. 
He  wheeled  savagely  towards  the  doorway  and  called 
out. 

“Who  are  cryin’  hist  after?” 

“It’s  only  me,”  chirped  an  old  lady  in  a clean 
white  apron,  a woman  he  knew  well.  “I  thought  ye 
were  Jim  Delaney,  the  coalheaver.  I got  to  whisper 
on  account  o’  me  throat.  I got  a cold  a fortnight 

59 


THE  INFORMER 

ago,  scrubbin’  floors  out  at  Clontarf,  an’  it’s  getting 
worse  instead  of  better.  The  doctor ” 

But  Gypo  glanced  angrily  at  her  bandaged  throat 
and  her  dim  blue  eyes  and  passed  on  with  a grunt 
without  listening  to  her  further.  He  arrived  at  No. 
44  and  entered  through  the  open  door  without 
knocking. 

No.  44  was  the  most  respectable  house  in  the 
street.  Its  red-brick  front  was  cleaner  than  the 
other  fronts.  Its  parlour  window  was  unbroken  and 
was  decorated  with  clean  curtains  of  Nottingham 
lace.  Its  door  was  freshly  painted  black.  Its 
owner  Jack  McPhillip,  the  bricklayer,  had  already 
begun  the  ascent  from  the  working  class  to  the  mid- 
dle class.  He  was  a Socialist  and  chairman  of  his 
branch  of  the  trade  union,  but  a thoroughly  respect- 
able, conservative  Socialist,  utterly  fanatical  in  his 
hatred  of  the  status  of  a working  man.  The  whole 
house  was  in  keeping  with  his  views  on  life.  The 
door  opened  on  a little  narrow  hall,  with  the  stair- 
way rising  midway  in  it.  The  stair-way  was  spot- 
lessly clean,  with  brightly  polished  brass  rods  holding 
down  the  well-washed  linoleum  carpet  that  struggled 
upwards  rigidly  to  the  top  of  it.  From  the  door,  in 
daytime,  the  backyard  could  be  seen.  In  the  back- 
yard there  were  outhouses  and  stables,  for  Jack  Mc- 
Phillip kept  a yellow  she-goat,  three  pigs,  a flock  of 
white  hens  and  a little  pony  and  trap,  in  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  driving  out  into  the  country  on 

60 


THE  INFORMER 

Sundays,  in  summer,  with  his  wife,  to  visit  his  wife’s 
relatives  at  Talmuc.  To  the  right  of  the  hall  there 
were  two  doors.  The  first  door  opened  into  the  par- 
lour. In  the  parlour  there  was  a piano,  eight  chairs 
of  all  sizes  and  sorts,  innumerable  photographs,  “or- 
naments,” and  absolutely  no  room  for  anybody  to 
move  about  without  touching  something  or  other. 
The  second  door  opened  into  the  kitchen,  a large 
clean  room  with  a cement  floor,  an  open  grate  and  a 
narrow  bed  in  the  corner  farthest  from  the  door. 
The  bed  belonged  to  old  Ned  Lawless,  the  epileptic 
relative  of  Mrs.  McPhillip.  He  lived  in  the  house 
and  received  his  meals  and  half  a crown  per  week,  in 
exchange  for  his  labours  in  looking  after  the  back- 
yard. He  was  never  clean,  the  only  dirty  thing  in  the 
house.  On  the  second  floor  there  were  three  rooms. 
One  was  used  by  the  old  couple.  The  second  by  the 
only  daughter  Mary,  a girl  of  twenty-one  who  worked 
in  the  city  as  a clerk,  in  the  offices  of  Gogarty  and 
Hogan,  solicitors  and  commissioners  for  oaths.  The 
third  room,  opening  on  the  backyard,  had  been 
closed  for  six  months.  It  had  been  Francis’s  bed- 
room. That  evening  he  had  just  entered  it  to  go  to 
bed  when  the  police  arrived. 

When  Gypo  entered,  the  house  was  crowded  with 
neighbours  who  had  come  in  to  sympathize.  Some 
were  even  standing  in  the  hallway.  Gypo  walked 
through  the  hallway  and  pushed  his  way  into  the 
kitchen.  Nobody  noticed  him.  He  sat  down  on  the 

61 


THE  INFORMER 

floor  to  the  left  of  the  door,  with  his  back  to  the  wall 
and  his  right  hand  grasping  his  left  wrist  in  front  of 
his  drawn-up  knees.  He  sat  in  silence  for  almost  a 
minute  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
McPhillip.  He  could  see  her  through  the  people  in 
the  room,  sitting  on  a chair  to  the  right  of  the  fire. 
She  had  black  wooden  rosary  beads  wound  round 
and  round  her  fingers.  There  were  tears  in  her  pale 
blue  eyes  and  streaming  down  her  great  white  fat 
cheeks.  Her  corpulent  body  flowed  over  the  chair 
on  all  sides  like  a load  of  hay  on  a cart.  Her  long 
check  apron  hid  her  feet.  She  was  looking  dimly  at 
the  fire,  murmuring  prayers  silently  with  her  lips. 
She  nodded  her  head  now  and  again  in  answer  to 
something  that  was  said  to  her. 

She  held  Gypo’s  attention  like  a powerful  magnet. 
Even  when  somebody  came  between  his  eyes  and  her 
body,  he  stared  through  the  intervening  body  as  if 
it  were  transparent.  His  eyes  were  centred  on  her 
forehead  and  on  her  grey-white  hair,  that  had  a yel- 
lowish sheen  at  the  top  of  the  skull  where  the  part- 
ing was.  He  was  thinking  how  good  she  had  been 
to  him.  She  had  often  fed  him.  More  precious 
still,  she  always  had  a word  of  sympathy  for  him,  a 
kind  look,  a tender,  soft,  smooth  touch  of  the  hand 
on  his  shoulder!  These  were  the  things  his  strange 
soul  remembered  and  treasured.  There  were  no 
others  who  were  soft  and  gentle  to  him  like  she  was. 
Often  when  he  and  Francis  came  into  the  house  at 

62 


THE  INFORMER 

dawn,  after  having  done  some  revolutionary  “stunt,” 
she  used  to  get  up,  in  her  bare  fat  feet,  with  a skirt 
drawn  over  her  night-dress.  She  used  to  move 
about  silently  with  quivering  lips,  cooking  breakfast. 
It  was  a huge  meal  from  her  hands,  an  indiscrimi- 
nate lavish  Irish  meal,  sausages,  eggs,  bacon,  all  to- 
gether on  one  plate. 

And  she  would  often  press  half  a crown  into 
Gypo’s  hand  when  nobody  was  looking,  whispering: 
“May  the  Virgin  protect  ye  an’  won’t  ye  look  after 
Frankie  an’  see  that  he  comes  to  no  harm.” 

“She  is  a good  woman,”  thought  Gypo,  imperson- 
ally, looking  at  her. 

Then  the  kitchen  emptied  suddenly  in  the  rear  of 
a fat  short  man  with  a pompous  appearance,  who 
wore  a dark  raincoat  and  a black  bowler  hat.  Every 
one  made  way  for  him  going  out  the  door  and  there 
were  whispers.  Some  scowled  at  him  angrily,  but  it 
was  obvious  that  everybody  had  a great  respect  for 
him  and  envied  him,  even  those  that  scowled  at  him. 
He  was  an  important  Labour  politician,  the  parlia- 
mentary representative  of  the  constituency  that  com- 
prised Titt  Street  and  the  surrounding  slums.  This 
important  politician  had  been  a bricklayer  with  Jack 
McPhillip  in  his  youth  and  Jack  McPhillip  was  still 
his  main  supporter. 

When  the  politician  had  disappeared  there  were 
only  five  people  left  in  the  room,  other  than  Jack 
McPhillip  and  his  wile.  Three  men  in  the  corner  by 

63 


THE  INFORMER 

the  window,  to  the  left  of  Gypo,  had  their  heads 
close  together,  whispering  with  that  sudden  intimacy 
that  is  born  of  the  presence  of  a calamity,  or  of 
something  that  has  a common  interest.  Gypo  knew 
two  of  them.  Two  of  them  were  members  of  the 
Revolutionary  Organization. 

“That  skunk  Bartly  Mulholland  is  here,”  mut- 
tered Gypo  to  himself,  “an’  that’s  Tommy  Connor 
with  him.  Mulholland  is  lookin’  for  Frankie  Mc- 
Phillip’s  job  on  the  Intelligence  Department,  I be- 
lieve; an’  I suppose  that  big  stiff  Connor  is  trainin’ 
to  be  his  butty.  Huh.” 

Jack  McPhillip  sat  on  the  narrow  bed  in  the  other 
corner,  almost  opposite  Gypo.  He  was  talking  to 
two  women,  who  had  chairs  close  to  the  bed.  They 
had  pushed  in  to  talk  to  McPhillip  as  soon  as  the 
politician  had  left.  They  were  nodding  their  heads 
and  fidgeting,  with  that  amazing  prodigality  of  emo- 
tion, which  women  of  the  very  lowest  rung  of  the 
middle  class  ladder  display,  when  in  the  presence 
of  members  of  the  working  class  who  are  still  in 
puris  naturalibus.  One  was  the  wife  of  the  Titt 
Street  “small  grocer.”  The  other  was  the  wife  of 
John  Kennedy  the  lorry  driver,  who  had  just  set  up 
in  business  “for  himself.” 

Jack  McPhillip  sat  on  the  bed,  with  his  right 
shoulder  leaning  against  the  pillow.  One  foot  was 
almost  on  the  floor.  The  other  foot  was  on  the  bed. 
He  held  his  right  hand,  palm  outwards,  in  front  of 

64 


THE  INFORMER 

his  face,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  drive  away  some 
imaginary  idea,  as  he  talked. 

“There  ye  are  now,”  he  was  saying;  “see  what  that 
man  has  done  for  himsel’  in  life.  That’s  what  every 
man  should  aim  at  doin’,  instead  of  jig  actin’  and 
endin’  up  by  bringin’  disgrace  on  his  class  an’  on  his 
family.  Johnny  Daly  is  a member  o’  Parliament 
this  day  because  he  spent  any  money  and  time  he 
had  to  spare  on  his  education.  He  looked  after  his 
business  and  he  did  his  best  to  educate  and  better 
the  condition  of  his  fellow-men.  That’s  what  every 
man  should  do.  But  my  son  ...  I put  him  into  a 
good  job  as  an  insurance  agent  an’  if  he  had  minded 
himself  he’d  be  well  on  his  way  now  towards  a re- 
spectable position  in  life  for  himself,  but  instead  o’ 
that ” 

Suddenly  there  was  an  amazing  interruption  that 
caused  everybody  to  start.  Gypo  had  spoken  in  a 
deep  thunderous  voice  that  filled  the  whole  house. 

“I’m  sorry  for  yer  trouble,  Mrs.  McPhillip,”  he 
cried. 

The  sentence  re-echoed  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed it.  It  had  been  uttered  in  a shout.  Gypo’s 
voice  had  suddenly  broken  loose  from  his  lungs  into 
a spontaneous  expression  of  the  emotion  that  shook 
him  into  a passion  of  feeling,  looking  at  Mrs.  Mc- 
Phillip. He  felt  suddenly  that  he  must  express  that 
feeling  forcibly.  Not  by  a whisper,  or  a plain  re- 
strained statement,  but  by  a savage  shout  that  would 

65 


THE  INFORMER 

brook  no  contradiction.  The  shout  wandered  about 
in  the  room  long  after  its  sound  had  vanished.  No- 
body spoke.  Its  force  was  too  tremendous.  Every- 
body, for  some  amazing  reason  or  other,  sniffed  at 
the  smell  of  fried  sausages  that  now  permeated  the 
atmosphere  of  the  kitchen.  The  smell  came  from 
the  pan  still  left  on  the  fireplace,  containing  the  sau- 
sages that  had  been  cooking  for  Francis  Joseph  Mc- 
Phillip’s  supper  when  the  police  came.  He  had  been 
so  tired  that  he  told  his  mother  to  bring  his  supper  to 
him  in  bed.  So  they  still  remained  there,  on  the  side 
of  the  fireplace,  forgotten. 

Then  the  initial  amazement  wore  off  and  every- 
body looked  at  Gypo.  They  saw  him  sitting  on  the 
floor,  doubled  up,  bulky  in  his  blue  dungarees  that 
clung  about  his  thighs  like  a swimming  suit,  with 
his  little  round  hat  perched  on  his  massive  head,  still 
staring  at  Mrs.  McPhillip’s  face  as  if  drawn  by  a 
magnet,  unconscious  of  the  amazement  he  had 
caused  by  his  shout. 

And  alone  of  all  the  people  in  the  room,  Mrs. 
McPhillip  was  not  amazed.  She  had  not  started. 
She  had  not  moved  her  eyes.  Her  lips  still  moved  in 
prayer.  Her  mind  was  drawn  by  another  magnet  to 
the  contemplation  of  something  utterly  remote  from 
the  people  in  that  room,  utterly  remote  from  life,  to 
the  contemplation  of  something  that  had  its  roots 
in  the  mystic  boundaries  of  eternity. 

Then  Jack  McPhillip  jumped  to  a sitting  posture 
66 


THE  INFORMER 

on  the  bed.  He  grabbed  at  the  old  tweed  cap  that 
had  fallen  off  his  grizzled  grey  head. 

“Oh,  it’s  you  that’s  in  it,  is  it?”  he  cried.  “Ye 
son  o’  damnation ! ” 

He  glared  at  Gypo  so  ferociously  that  his  face  be- 
gan to  twitch.  His  face  was  so  burned  by  the  sun 
that  it  was  almost  black  at  a distance.  At  close 
quarters  it  looked  a reddish  brown.  He  had  a glass 
eye.  The  other  eye  looked  straight  across  the  glass 
one,  as  if  guarding  it.  He  had  to  look  away  from  a 
man  in  order  to  see  him.  This  distortion  in  his  vi- 
sion had  always  filled  his  wife  with  terror,  so  that 
now  she  trembled  whenever  he  looked  at  her.  It 
was  so  uncanny,  his  looking  at  space  like  that.  His 
body  was  short  and  slight.  He  was  fifty  years  old. 

He  jumped  off  the  bed  and  stood  on  the  floor  in  his 
grey  socks,  his  blue  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  the  little 
white  patch  of  linen  on  the  abdomen  of  his  grey  flan- 
nel shirt  puffing  in  and  out  with  his  heavy  breathing, 
his  throat  contorting,  his  hands  gripping  and  ungrip- 
ping restlessly. 

Mrs.  McPhillip  had  awakened  from  her  reverie 
as  soon  as  her  husband  spoke.  She  had  started  up 
and  gripped  her  breast  over  her  heart  with  a dumb 
exclamation.  Then  she  rubbed  her  two  eyes  hur- 
riedly and  looked  at  him.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him, 
her  eyes  grew  dim  again  and  her  body  subsided  into 
the  chair  from  which  it  had  risen  slightly. 

“Jack,”  she  cried  in  an  agonized  voice,  “Jack! 

67 


THE  INFORMER 

Jack,  leave  him  alone.  He  was  Frankie’s  friend. 
He  was  a friend  of  me  dead  boy’s.  Let  him  alone. 
What’s  done  is  done.” 

“Be  damned  to  that  for  a story,”  cried  Jack.  His 
voice  was  weak  and  jerky,  just  like  the  voice  of  his 
dead  son.  “A  friend  d’ye  call  him?  What  kind  of 
friend  d’ye  call  that  waster  that  never  did  a day’s 
work  in  his  life?  That  ex-policeman!  He  was 
even  driven  outa  the  police.  That’s  fine  company 
for  yer  son,  Maggie.  It’s  the  likes  o’  him  that’s 
brought  Frankie  to  his  death  an’  destruction.  Them 
an’  their  revolutions.  It’s  in  Russia  they  should  be 
where  they  could  act  the  cannibal  as  much  as  they 
like,  instead  of  leadin’  good  honest  Irishmen  astray. 
Why  don’t  they  get  out  of  here  and  go  back  to  Eng- 
land where  they  came  from,  with  their  rotten  gold, 
gev  to  them  be  the  Orangemen  to  turn  Ireland  into 
an  uproar,  so  that  the  Freemasons  could  step  in 
again  and  capture  it.  Ah-h-h-h,  I’d  like  to  get  me 
fingers  on  yer  throat,  ye ” 

He  was  rushing  across  the  floor  at  Gypo,  but  the 
three  men  had  jumped  up  and  caught  him.  They 
held  him  back.  Gypo  stared  at  him,  as  if  in  perplex- 
ity, without  moving.  But  the  muscles  of  his  shoul- 
ders stiffened,  almost  unconsciously.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered slowly  from  the  fuming  husband  to  the  sobbing 
wife,  who  had  again  turned  to  the  fire. 

Then  the  people  from  the  parlour  rushed  into  the 
kitchen,  attracted  by  the  shouting.  They  were 

68 


THE  INFORMER 

headed  by  Mary  McPhillip,  the  daughter  of  the 
house.  She  was  a handsome  young  woman,  with  a 
full  figure,  plump,  with  red  cheeks,  a firm  jaw,  au- 
burn hair  cropped  in  the  current  fashion,  blue  eyes 
that  had  a “sensible”  look  in  them  and  a rather  large 
mouth  that  was  opened  wide  by  her  excitement. 
Every  bit  of  her  except  her  mouth  belonged  to  an 
average  Irishwoman  of  the  middle  class.  The 
mouth  was  a product  of  the  slums.  Its  size  and 
its  propensity  for  disclosing  the  state  of  the  mind 
by  exaggerated  movement,  which  is  the  hallmark  of 
the  slum  girl,  belied  the  neat  elegance  of  the  rest 
of  the  body  and  of  all  the  clothes.  She  was  still 
dressed  just  as  she  had  arrived  from  the  office,  in 
a smart  navy-blue  costume  which  she  had  made  her- 
self. The  skirt  was  rather  short,  in  the  current 
fashion,  and  she  stood  with  her  feet  fairly  wide 
apart,  in  the  arrogant  posture  of  a woman  of  good 
family.  Her  well-shaped  calves  were  covered  with 
thin  black  silk  stockings.  But  she  had  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  unconsciously,  as  she  stood  in  front  of 
the  indiscriminate  crowd  that  had  followed  her  in 
from  the  parlour,  to  find  out  what  had  caused  the 
disturbance  in  the  kitchen. 

“What’s  the  row  about,  father?”  she  said. 

The  accent  was  good,  but  a little  too  good.  It  was 
too  refined.  The  pronunciation  of  the  words  was  too 
correct.  It  had  not  that  careless  certainty  of  the 
born  lady.  She  spoke  in  an  angry  tenor  voice,  in 

69 


THE  INFORMER 

the  rich  soft  tones  of  the  Midlands,  her  mother’s 
birthplace.  Her  voice  had  the  softness  of  butter, 
that  voice  which  patriotic  Irishmen  always  associate 
with  kindness  and  unassailable  innocence  and  vir- 
tue, but  which  is  really  the  natural  mask  of  a stern, 
resolute  character. 

“Aren’t  we  bad  enough,”  she  continued,  “without 
your  acting  like  a drunken  tramp?  Shut  up  and 
don’t  disgrace  yourself.”  She  stamped  her  right 
foot  and  cried  again:  “Shut  up.” 

The  father  relaxed  immediately.  He  began  to 
tremble  slightly.  He  was  very  much  afraid  of  his 
daughter.  In  spite  of  the  power  of  vituperation 
which  he  undoubtedly  possessed,  he  had  been  afraid 
of  both  his  children.  When  Francis  had  become  dis- 
contented and  joined  the  Revolutionary  Organiza- 
tion, the  father  had  poured  out  threats  and  abuse  for 
hours,  almost  every  night,  for  the  edification  of  his 
wife,  but  when  the  son  came  in  he  said  nothing.  He 
was  a weak,  nervous  character,  slightly  hysterical, 
capable  of  committing  any  act  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  but  incapable  of  pursuing  a logical  course 
of  action  resolutely.  But  his  children  were  resolute. 
The  son  was  resolute  in  his  hatred  of  existing  con- 
ditions of  society.  He  was  a resolute,  determined 
revolutionary,  with  his  father’s  energy.  The  daugh- 
ter was  resolute  in  her  determination  to  get  out  of 
the  slums. 

The  father  slipped  out  of  the  hands  of  the  men 
70 


THE  INFORMER 

that  were  holding  him  and  moved  backwards  until 
he  reached  the  bed.  He  sat  down  on  it  without 
looking  at  it.  He  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
sleeve  although  it  was  perfectly  dry.  But  it  had 
a prickly  feeling  in  it,  as  if  scores  of  needles  had 
thrust  themselves  out  from  his  brain  through  it. 
He  always  felt  like  that  when  he  got  an  attack  of 
nerves,  especially  since  his  son  became  a revolution- 
ary, and  it  became  known  that  his  activities  were  be- 
ing watched  at  police  headquarters. 

He  looked  at  his  daughter,  at  first  in  a cowed 
fashion.  He  was  afraid  of  her,  because  she  had  be- 
come what  he  had  urged  her  from  her  infancy  to 
become,  “a  lady.”  He  was  afraid  of  her  because  she 
was  so  well  educated,  because  she  had  such  “swell” 
friends,  because  she  dressed  so  well,  because  she 
washed  herself  several  times  a day,  because  she 
spoke  properly.  But  then  he  became  irritated  with 
all  this  and  remembered  that  he  himself  was  a 
Socialist,  the  chairman  of  his  branch  of  the  trade 
union,  a political  leader  in  the  district,  that  all  men 
were  free  and  equal  and  ...  all  the  pet  phrases 
with  which  respectable  Socialists  delude  themselves 
into  the  belief  that  they  are  philosophers  and  men 
of  principle.  He  spoke  with  a ring  of  indignation 
and  of  warning  in  his  voice. 

“Am  I to  be  called  a tramp  by  me  own  daughter 
in  me  own  house,”  he  cried,  “when  I tell  this  ruf- 
fian his  true  character?  Yes,  an’  every  other 

71 


THE  INFORMER 

ruffian  that’s  the  curse  o’  the  workin’-class  move- 
ment with  their  talk  of  violence  an’  murder  an’  revo- 
lution. All  me  life  I have  stood  straight  for  the 
cause  of  me  fellow-workers.  I was  one  o’  the  first 
men  to  stand  up  for  Connolly  an’  the  cause  o’  So- 
cialism, but  I always  said  that  the  greatest  enemies 
o’  the  workin’  class  were  those  o’  their  own  kind 
that  advocated  violence.  I . . .” 

“I  told  you  to  shut  up,”  said  Mary  in  a calm,  low 
voice,  as  she  walked  over  to  the  bed,  with  her  hands 
still  on  her  hips.  “It’s  just  like  you,”  she  almost 
hissed,  putting  her  doubled  fists  into  the  little  pock- 
ets of  her  jacket.  “It’s  just  like  you  to  go  back  on 
your  own  son.” 

She  did  not  know  why  she  was  saying  this,  but 
she  felt  some  force  driving  her  on  in  opposition  to 
her  father,  in  defence  of  her  dead  brother.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  audience  she  had  behind  her.  Because, 
strangely  enough,  she  herself  hated  Frankie  for  be- 
longing to  the  Revolutionary  Organization,  since  she 
got  a position  two  years  before  as  clerk  in  the  offices 
of  Gogarty  and  Hogan.  Before  that  she  had  been  a 
revolutionary  herself,  but  not  a member  of  any  or- 
ganization. She  used  to  attend  meetings  and  cheer 
and  get  into  arguments  with  irritated  old  gentlemen, 
etc.  But  during  the  past  two  years  her  outlook  on 
life  had  undergone  a subtle  change,  gradual  but  def- 
inite. At  first  she  began  to  get  “disillusioned,”  as 
she  used  to  tell  Francis,  with  the  blase  air  of  a young 

72 


THE  INFORMER 

girl  of  nineteen.  Then  she  used  to  lecture  him  on 
the  desirability  of  keeping  better  company.  This 
was  at  the  time  when  she  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Joseph  Augustine  Short,  a young  gentleman  who  was 
serving  his  apprenticeship  with  Gogarty  and  Hogan 
and  wore  plus  fours  and  left  Harcourt  Street  Station 
every  Sunday  morning,  to  play  golf  down  the  coun- 
try somewhere.  Finally,  she  became  opposed  vio- 
lently “to  the  whole  theory  of  revolution,”  as  being 
degenerating  and  “subversive  of  all  moral  ideas.” 
She  became  religious  and  got  the  idea  into  her  head 
that  she  could  convert  Commandant  Dan  Gallagher, 
the  leader  of  the  revolutionary  movement.  All  this 
later  development  had  been  quite  recent,  however, 
and  had  not  matured  fully  in  her  character.  It  was 
yet  merely  plastic.  It  had  not  become  a fixed  habit 
of  thought,  surrounded  by  deep  and  bitter  prejudices, 
that  form  themselves  into  “firm  convictions.” 

For  that  reason  she  had  responded  suddenly  to 
that  strange  exaltation,  born  of  hatred  for  the  law, 
which  is  traditional  and  hereditary  in  the  slums. 
The  one  glorious  romance  of  the  slums  is  the  feeling 
of  intense  hatred  against  the  oppressive  hand  of  the 
law,  which  sometimes  stretches  out  to  strike  some 
one,  during  a street  row,  during  an  industrial  dis- 
pute, during  a Nationalist  uprising.  It  is  a clarion 
call  to  all  the  spiritual  emotion  that  finds  no  other 
means  of  expression  in  that  sordid  environment, 
neither  in  art,  nor  in  industry,  nor  in  commercial 

73 


THE  INFORMER 

undertakings,  nor  in  the  more  reasonable  searchings 
for  a religious  understanding  of  the  universal  crea- 
tion. 

“I  stand  by  what  Frankie  has  done,”  she  cried, 
turning  to  the  people.  “I  don’t  agree  with  him  in 
politics,  but  every  man  has  a right  to  his  opinions 
and  every  man  should  fight  for  his  rights  according 
to  . . .”  she  got  confused  and  stammered  a little. 
Then  she  raised  her  hand  suddenly  with  an  enthu- 
siastic gesture  and  cried  in  a loud  voice:  “He  was 
my  brother  anyway  and  I’m  going  to  stand  up  for 
him.” 

Then  she  suddenly  put  her  handkerchief  to  her 
nose  and  blew  it  fiercely.  There  was  a loud  murmur 
of  applause.  The  father  made  a half-hearted  at- 
tempt to  say  something,  but  he  subsided.  Mrs.  Mc- 
Phillip  was  heard  to  mumble  something,  but  nobody 
paid  any  attention  to  her.  Nobody  noticed  her  ex- 
cept Gypo,  who  still  sat  on  the  floor  staring  at  her, 
fondling  the  memory  of  her  past  goodness  to  him, 
like  a sumptuous  luxury  that  he  must  soon  relin- 
quish. Although  he  had  been  the  cause  of  all  the 
excitement,  he  was  now  forgotten  in  the  still  greater 
excitement,  caused  by  the  argument  between  the 
father  and  daughter  of  the  dead  revolutionary. 

Then  Mary  turned  to  Gypo  and  addressed  him. 

“If  you  were  a friend  of  my  brother,”  she  said, 
“you  are  quite  welcome  here.  Come  into  the  par- 
lour a minute.  I want  to  talk  to  you.” 

74 


I 


THE  INFORMER 

Gypo  started  and  looked  at  Mary  with  his  tufted 
eyebrows  twitching  ominously  like  snouts.  But  he 
said  nothing.  She  was  embarrassed  by  the  uncouth 
stare  and  flushed  slightly.  She  coughed  in  her 
throat  and  put  her  fingers  to  her  lips.  She  began 
to  talk  rapidly,  as  if  apologizing  to  the  uncouth  giant 
for  having  had  the  temerity  to  address  him  a request. 

“It’s  because  Frankie  told  us  that  he  met  you  in 
the  Dunboy  Lodging  House  before  he  came  here. 
You  are  the  only  one  he  met  in  town  before  he  came 
in  here,  so  I thought  maybe  that  . . . you  might  be 
able  . . .” 

She  stopped  in  confusion,  amazed  at  the  startling 
change  that  had  come  over  Gypo.  He  had  become 
seized  by  some  violent  emotion  as  she  spoke  until 
his  face  contorted  as  if  he  were  gazing  at  some 
awe-inspiring  horror.  Then  she  stopped.  His  face 
stood  still  gaping  at  her.  Then  for  some  reason  or 
other  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  shouting  as  he  did  so 
at  the  top  of  his  voice:  “All  right.” 

As  he  bent  his  head  and  the  upper  part  of  his  body 
to  jump  to  his  feet,  his  right  trousers  pocket  was 
turned  mouth  to  the  ground.  Four  silver  coins  fell 
to  the  cement  floor  with  a rattling  noise.  These 
coins  were  the  change  he  had  received  in  the  public- 
house. 

He  was  petrified.  Every  muscle  in  his  body  stiff- 
ened. His  head  stood  still.  His  jaws  set  like  the 
teeth  of  a bear  trap  that  has  been  sprung  fruitlessly. 

75 


THE  INFORMER 

Behind  his  eyes  he  felt  the  delicious  cold  and  con- 
gealed sensation  of  being  about  to  fight  a desperate 
and  bloody  battle.  For  he  was  certain  that  the  four 
white  silver  coins  lying  nakedly,  ever  so  nakedly,  on 
the  floor,  were  as  indicative  of  his  betrayal  of  his 
comrade  as  a confession  uttered  aloud  in  a crowded 
market-place. 

Somebody  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coins. 

“Let  them  alone,”  shouted  Gypo. 

He  swooped  down  to  the  floor  and  his  right  palm, 
spread  flat,  covered  the  coins  with  the  dull  sound  of 
a heavy  dead  fish  falling  on  an  iron  deck. 

“I  only  wanted  to  hand  them  to  ye,  Gypo,”  panted 
the  weazened  flour-mill  worker  who  had  stooped  to 
pick  them  up.  He  had  been  knocked  to  his  knees 
by  Gypo’s  swoop. 

Gypo  took  no  notice  of  the  explanation.  As  he 
collected  the  coins  in  his  left  fist  and  rose  again, 
leaning  on  his  right  hand,  he  was  listening,  waiting 
for  the  attack. 

But  there  was  no  attack.  Everybody  was 
amazed,  mesmerized  by  the  curious  movements  of 
the  irritated  giant.  They  stared  with  open  mouths, 
all  except  Bartly  Mulholland  and  Tommy  Connor, 
who  stood  in  the  background,  looking  curiously  at 
one  another  with  narrowed  eyes.  Darting  his  eyes 
around  the  room  Gypo  caught  sight  of  the  two  of 
them.  Spurred  by  some  sudden  impulse  he  held  up 
his  right  hand  over  his  head,  he  stamped  his  right 

76 


THE  INFORMER 

foot,  he  threw  back  his  head  and  shouted,  looking 
straight  upwards: 

“I  swear  before  Almighty  God  that  I warned  him 
to  keep  away  from  the  house.” 

There  was  a dead  silence  for  three  seconds.  Then 
a perceptible  shudder  ran  through  the  room.  Every- 
body remembered  with  horror  that  there  was  a sus- 
picion abroad,  a suspicion  that  an  informer  had  be- 
trayed Francis  Joseph  McPhillip.  Informer!  A 
horror  to  be  understood  fully  only  by  an  Irish  mind. 
For  an  awful  moment  each  one  present  suspected 
himself  or  herself.  Then  each  looked  at  his  or  her 
neighbour.  Gradually  rage  took  the  place  of  fear. 
But  it  had  no  direction.  Even  the  most  daring 
gasped  when  their  minds  suggested,  that  possibly  the 
great  fierce  giant  might  have  had  . . . Impossible! 

“There’s  no  man  suspects  ye,  Gypo.  Ye  needn’t 
be  afraid  of  that,”  cried  Tommy  Connor,  the  huge 
red-faced  docker  with  immense  jaws  like  a bullock, 
who  had  been  whispering  to  Bartly  Mulholland. 

He  had  spoken  spontaneously  with  a queer  note 
of  anger  in  his  voice. 

“Nobody  suspects  ye.  Good  God,  man!  . . .” 

There  was  a chorus  of  agreement.  Everybody 
was  eager  to  assent  to  the  statement  that  Connor 
had  made.  Somebody  put  his  hand  on  Gypo’s 
shoulder  and  began  to  say:  “Sure  it’s  well  known 
that  . . .” 

But  Gypo  elbowed  the  man  away  fiercely  and  set 
77 


THE  INFORMER 

out  hurriedly  across  the  floor  towards  Mrs.  McPhil- 
lip.  He  elbowed  the  people  out  of  his  way  without 
looking  at  them.  He  stood  in  front  of  Mrs.  McPhil- 
lip.  He  stared  at  her  impassively  for  a few  mo- 
ments. Then  he  put  his  hand  slowly  to  his  head 
and  took  off  his  hat.  He  felt  moved  by  an  incon- 
trollable  impulse.  All  his  actions  had  completed 
themselves  before  his  mind  was  aware  of  them.  His 
mind  was  struggling  along  aimlessly  in  pursuit  of 
his  actions,  impotently  deprecating  them  and  whis- 
pering warnings.  But  it  was  powerless. 

This  impulse  that  had  possession  of  him  now  was 
of  the  same  origin  as  the  one  that  controlled  him 
when  he  was  looking  into  the  shop  window  think- 
ing of  his  youth. 

He  was  beyond  himself.  His  lips  quivered. 
His  throat  got  stuffed.  He  swallowed  his  breath 
with  an  articulate  sound,  resembling  a cry  of  pain. 
He  held  out  his  left  hand  towards  Mrs.  McPhillip. 
He  opened  the  hand  slowly.  The  four  white  silver 
coins  lay  there. 

“Take  it,”  he  muttered.  “Ye  were  good  to  me  an’ 
I’m  sorry  for  yer  trouble.” 

He  felt  a mad  desire  to  pull  out  the  roll  of  notes 
and  give  them  to  her  also,  but  the  very  thought  of 
such  a mad  action  made  him  shiver.  Instead  he 
dropped  the  four  coins  into  Mrs.  McPhillip’s  lap. 

Mrs.  McPhillip  glanced  at  the  money  and  then 
burst  into  loud  sobs.  The  sound  maddened  Gypo. 

78 


THE  INFORMER 

He  turned  about  and  rushed  towards  the  door.  He 
stubbed  his  foot  against  the  door-jamb  and  hurtled 
into  the  hall.  He  rushed  along  the  passage,  cursing 
and  striking  furiously  at  everybody  that  came  in  his 
way.  He  stood  outside  the  street  door  and  breathed 
deeply. 

Two  men  rushed  out  after  him.  They  were  Bartly 
MuIKoIland  and  Tommy  Connor,  the  docker. 


79 


CHAPTER  V 


u ypo!” 

vl  T T ^yP°  had  taken  three  steps  down  the  street 
when  his  name  came  to  him  through  the 
darkness,  uttered  in  that  long-drawn-out  whisper 
which  is  the  customary  intonation  among  revolution- 
aries. He  contracted  his  back  suddenly  like  an  ass 
that  has  been  struck  with  violence.  Then  he  halted. 
He  did  not  turn  about  or  reply.  He  waited.  He 
listened  with  a beating  heart  to  the  slow  footsteps 
that  came  up  to  him  from  behind.  One,  two,  three, 
four  . . . they  stopped.  Gypo  looked  to  his  left. 
Bartly  Mulholland  was  standing  there. 

The  two  of  them  stood  in  front  of  a window 
through  which  lamp-light  was  streaming,  across 
Gypo’s  chest  on  to  Mulholland’s  face.  Mulholland’s 
yellow  face  looked  almost  black  in  the  lamp-light. 
It  was  furrowed  vertically  from  the  temples  to  the 
jaws,  with  deep  black  furrows.  The  mouth  was  large 
and  open,  fixed  in  a perpetual  grin  that  had  absolutely 
no  merriment  in  it,  that  fixed  grin  of  sardonic  con- 
tempt that  is  nearly  always  seen  on  the  faces  of  men 
who  make  a business  of  concealing  their  thoughts. 
The  nose  was  long  and  narrow.  The  ears  were  large. 

80 


THE  INFORMER 

The  forehead  was  furrowed  horizontally.  The  skin 
on  the  forehead  was  very  white  in  contrast  to  the 
dark  skin  on  the  cheeks.  The  furrows  on  the  fore- 
head were  very  shallow  and  narrow,  like  thin  lines 
drawn  with  a sharp  pencil.  In  fact,  the  whole  ap- 
pearance of  the  face  was  that  of  an  artificial  face, 
such  as  that  produced  in  the  dressing-room  of  an 
actor  by  means  of  paints,  etc.  This  suggestion  was 
strengthened  by  the  appearance  of  the  hair  that 
straggled  in  loose  wisps  from  beneath  the  shovel- 
shaped peak  of  the  grey  tweed  cap.  The  hair  ap- 
peared to  be  a dirty  brown  wig,  much  the  worse  for 
wear.  But  neither  the  hair  nor  any  portion  of  the 
face  was  artificial.  Everything  had  come  from  the 
hand  of  Nature,  which  seemed,  by  some  peculiar 
whimsey,  to  have  cast  this  individual  for  the  role  of 
a conspirator.  The  face  was  the  face  of  a clown  to 
hide  the  conspirator’s  eyes,  except  from  a very  close 
scrutiny.  The  eyes  were  the  colour  of  sea  water  that 
is  dirty  with  grey  sand.  These  eyes  are  sometimes 
described  as  watery  blue,  but  it  is  a totally  wrong 
description.  There  was  an  indescribable  coldness 
and  depth  in  them  which  it  is  beyond  the  power  of 
any  colour  to  describe.  They  stared  without  a move- 
ment of  the  pupils  or  of  the  lashes  at  Gypo’s  face, 
expressing  no  emotion  whatever.  They  were  not 
doors  of  the  soul  like  ordinary  eyes,  but  spy  holes. 
They  stared  glassily  like  a cat’s  eyes. 

This  curious  creature  was  dressed  like  a workman, 
81 


THE  INFORMER 

in  heavy  hobnailed  boots,  brown  corduroy  trousers 
with  strings  tied  around  the  legs  below  the  knees,  a 
black  handkerchief  tied  in  sailor  fashion  around  his 
neck  and  an  old  grey  tweed  coat  that  almost  reached 
half-way  down  his  thighs.  His  hands  were  stuck 
deep  down  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat. 

“Where’s  yer  hurry  takin’  ye,  Gypo?”  he  drawled 
in  a low  lazy  voice,  as  if  he  were  half-drunk  or  lying 
on  his  back  in  a sunny  place  on  a hot  summer’s  day. 

“Who’s  in  a hurry?”  growled  Gypo.  “How  d’ye 
make  out  I’m  in  a hurry?” 

“Oh,  nothin’  atall.  Don’t  get  yer  rag  out,  Gypo. 
Ye  might  talk  to  the  people.  We  never  see  ye  atall 
now  since  ye  left  the  Organization.  Are  ye 
workin’?” 

“No,”  snapped  Gypo  angrily.  The  short  ejacula- 
tion coming  from  his  thick  lips  sounded  like  a solitary 
gunshot  coming  a long  way  over  still  air.  “I  ain’t 
workin’  an’  all  o’  you  fellahs,  that  were  supposed  to 
be  comrades  o’  mine,  take  damn  good  care  to  keep 
out  o’  the  way,  for  fear  I might  ask  ye  for  the  price 
of  a feed  or  a flop.  Yer  a quare  lot  o’  Communists.” 

Mulholland  drew  himself  in  at  the  middle,  emitted 
his  breath,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thrust  out  his 
right  foot  and  leaned  his  weight  backwards  heavily 
on  his  left  foot.  Then  he  turned  his  head  up  side- 
ways to  let  the  drizzling  rain  beat  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  instead  of  on  his  face.  The  grin  left  his  mouth 
and  for  a moment  he  appeared  to  have  become  angry. 

82 


THE  INFORMER 

“Ye  don’t  seem  to  be  in  any  need  o’  money  to- 
night, Gypo,”  he  breathed  ever  so  gently. 

Then  just  as  suddenly  he  broke  into  an  almost 
fawning  and  ingratiating  smile.  He  continued  in 
his  ordinary  lazy  voice: 

“Don’t  be  tryin’  to  make  out  yer  broke,  after  me 
seein’  the  money  that  fell  outa  yer  pocket  in  the 
kitchen  beyond  just  now.  Aren’t  ye  goin’  to  stand  us 
a wet?” 

Gypo  had  begun  to  shiver.  He  shivered  with 
minute  movements,  just  as  a massive  tree  shivers, 
when  the  forest  earth  is  shaken  beneath  it  by  a heavy 
concussion.  Then  suddenly  he  recovered  himself. 
Without  pausing  to  think,  he  shot  out  both  hands 
simultaneously  like  piston-rods.  Mulholland  gasped 
as  the  two  huge  hands  closed  about  his  throat.  He 
struck  out  helplessly  with  his  own  hands  at  Gypo’s 
body.  His  blows  were  as  ineffective  as  the  flapping 
of  a linnet’s  wings  against  its  cage.  Gypo’s  face  was 
lit  with  a demoniac  pleasure  as  he  raised  Mulhol- 
land’s  body  from  the  ground,  clutching  it  by  the 
throat  with  his  two  hands.  He  raised  it  up  like  a 
book  which  he  wanted  to  read,  until  Mulholland’s 
eyes  were  level  with  his  own.  Then  they  both  looked 
at  one  another. 

Mulholland’s  eyes  were  still  cold  and  glassy,  im- 
penetrable and  absolutely  without  emotion.  Gypo’s 
eyes  were  ferocious  and  eager,  full  of  a mad  savage 
joy.  His  mouth  had  shut  tight  and  the  skin  had  run 

83 


THE  INFORMER 

taut  over  the  glossy  humps  on  his  face,  so  that  his 
face  looked  like  tanned  pigskin.  Mulholland’s 
tongue  was  hanging  out. 

Then  Gypo  groaned  and  prepared  to  crush  out 
Mulholland’s  life  between  his  thick  fingers,  when  he 
was  disturbed  by  a shout  from  behind.  He  dropped 
Mulholland  to  the  street  like  a bag  and  whirled 
about.  Tommy  Connor  had  rushed  up  from  the 
doorway  of  No.  44  where  he  had  been  waiting.  He 
was  standing  now  with  his  mouth  wide  open  in 
astonishment  and  terror. 

“What’s  wrong,  boys?”  he  cried.  “In  the  name  o’ 
God  what  are  ye  up  to?” 

“He  suspects  me,”  cried  Gypo,  “and  . . .”  Then 
he  sank  into  silence,  unable  to  say  any  more.  His 
unsatisfied  fury  choked  him. 

“Suspects  ye  of  what?”  cried  Connor.  “What 
d’ye  say  he  suspects  ye  of?” 

“I  didn’t  suspect  him  of  anythin’  atall,”  cried 
Mulholland,  rising  to  his  feet  slowly.  His  face  was 
contorting  with  pain.  “I  only  asked  him  to ” 

“Yer  a liar,  ye  did,”  bellowed  Gypo.  “Ye  sus- 
pect me,  an’  well  I know  ye,  Bartly  Mulholland. 
D’ye  think  I don’t  know  ye  an’  all  about  ye?  Ye 
got  a grudge  agin  me  an’  Frankie  McPhillip  this 
long  time.  Don’t  I know  yer  Intelligence  Officer  for 
No.  3 Area  an’  that  yer  nosin’  around  now ” 

“Shut  up  or  I’ll  plug  ye  where  ye  stand,”  hissed 
84 


THE  INFORMER 

Connor,  ramming  the  muzzle  of  his  revolver  into 
Gypo’s  side.  “Don’t  ye  know  there  are  people 
listenin’?  D’ye  want  to  let  the  dogs  o’  the  street 
know  the  secrets  o’  the  Organization  that  ye  swore 
on  yer  oath  to  kape?”  He  panted  and  continued  in 
a lower  voice  still:  “Are  ye  mad  or  are  ye  lookin’ 
to  get  plugged?” 

Gypo’s  mouth  remained  open  in  the  act  of  begin- 
ning a word,  but  he  did  not  utter  the  word.  He  half- 
turned  his  body  in  order  to  look  into  Connor’s  face. 
He  saw  it,  big,  angry,  menacing,  with  the  nostrils 
distended,  so  that  the  insides,  blackened  with  coal, 
were  visible.  The  face  was  within  four  inches  of 
Gypo’s  face.  Connor’s  revolver  muzzle  was  pressing 
into  Gypo’s  right  armpit.  Gypo  feared  neither  the 
face  nor  the  revolver.  He  stared  with  wrinkled  fore- 
head at  Connor,  knowing  that  he  could  crush  him 
and  Mulholland,  both  together,  crush  them  to  death, 
to  a shapeless  pulp,  by  clasping  them  in  his  arms. 

But  they  were  not  merely  two  men,  two  human 
beings.  They  were  something  more  than  that. 
They  represented  the  Revolutionary  Organization. 
They  were  merely  cogs  in  the  wheel  of  that  Organiza- 
tion. That  was  what  he  feared,  what  rendered  him 
powerless.  He  feared  that  mysterious,  intangible 
thing,  that  was  all  brain  and  no  body.  An  intelli- 
gence without  a body.  A thing  that  was  full  of 
plans,  implacable,  reaching  out  everywhere  invisibly, 

85 


THE  INFORMER 

with  invisible  tentacles  like  a supernatural  monster. 
A thing  that  was  like  a religion,  mysterious,  occult, 
devilish. 

Frankie  McPhillip  had  once  told  him  that  they 
tracked  a man  to  the  Argentine  Republic,  somewhere 
the  other  side  of  the  world.  Shot  him  dead  in  a 
lodging-house  at  night  too,  without  saying  a word. 
What  d’ye  think  of  that? 

“All  right,”  he  said  at  last,  “put  away  yer  gat, 
Tommy.  I’ll  stay  quiet.” 

A few  people  had  gathered  on  the  far  side  of  the 
street  and  were  looking  on  curiously.  An  immense 
crowd  would  have  already  gathered  on  ordinary 
occasions,  but  there  was  tension  and  anxiety  in  the 
district  that  night.  Shooting  might  begin  at  any 
minute.  It  was  always  so.  One  death  brings  an- 
other in  its  train.  Each  man  thought  this  in  his  own 
mind,  although  nobody  breathed  a word.  It  was  a 
kind  of  silent  terror. 

“Come  on,  boys,”  said  Connor,  “let’s  get  away 
from  here.  We’re  gatherin’  a crowd.” 

“Come  on  down  to  Ryan’s,”  whispered  Mulholland 
to  Gypo,  in  his  usual  lazy,  insinuating  voice,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  “Commandant  Gallagher  is 
down  there.  He  wants  to  see  ye.” 

“What  does  he  want  with  me?”  growled  Gypo. 
“I’m  not  a member  o’  the  Organization  any  more. 
He’s  got  nothin’  to  do  with  me.  I’m  not  goin’.” 

“Come  on,  man,”  whispered  Connor,  “don’t  stand 
86 


THE  INFORMER 

here  chawin’.  He’s  not  goin’  t’ate  ye.  Come  on. 
Is  it  afraid  o’  the  Commandant  ye  are?  Why  so?” 

“I’m  not  afraid  of  any  man  that  was  ever  pupped,” 
growled  Gypo.  “Come  on.” 

The  three  men  walked  off  abreast,  in  step  like 
soldiers,  their  feet  falling  loudly  on  to  the  wet  pave- 
ment, heels  first.  At  the  corner  the  footfalls  be- 
came confused.  Gypo  spat  into  the  street.  Mul- 
holland  sneezed.  They  entered  the  public-house  by 
a little  narrow  side  door  that  had  a bright  brass  knob 
on  it.  They  went  along  a narrow  passage,  through 
a stained-glass  swing  door,  into  a brightly  lit  oblong 
room. 

A man  was  sitting  by  a little  gas  fire  on  a high 
three  legged  stool  facing  the  door.  When  Gypo  saw 
the  man  he  stopped  dead. 

The  man  was  Commandant  Dan  Gallagher. 


87 


CHAPTER  VI 


During  the  previous  autumn  a terrific 
sensation  had  been  caused  all  over  Ireland 

by  the  farm-labourers’  strike  in  the  M 

district.  The  sensation  was  brought  to  a crisis  by 
the  murder  of  the  Farmers’  Union  Secretary.  For 
the  first  time  it  was  discovered  that  the  Revolutionary 
Organization  had  spread  its  influence  among  the 
farm-labourers  and  over  the  whole  country.  Some- 
thing had  been  discovered.  A Government  secret 
organization  had  overlapped  the  Communist  organi- 
zation and  there  was  a little  effervescence,  which 
was  immediately  suppressed  by  the  Government. 
Very  little  leaked  out  publicly.  The  newspapers 
were  forbidden  to  talk  about  it.  The  Conservative 
organs  in  Dublin  had  timid  editorials  demanding  that 
the  Government  should  take  the  people  into  its 
confidence.  What  really  was  the  extent  of  this 
“conspiracy  against  the  national  safety?” 

Then  immediately  Commandant  Dan  Gallagher 
became  a public  figure  and  a general  topic  of  con- 
versation. He  came  out  of  obscurity  in  a night  as  it 
were.  People  suddenly  discovered  that  he  was  a 
power  in  the  country.  He  was  photographed  and 
interviewed  and  his  photographs  appeared  in  all  the 

88 


THE  INFORMER 

newspapers  both  in  this  country  and  in  England  and 
in  America.  He  promptly  denounced  the  murder  as 
a “foul  crime  against  the  honour  of  the  working 
class  and  the  whole  revolutionary  movement.”  He 
began  to  be  feared  intensely  in  official  quarters  as  a 
“slippery  customer.”  This  phrase  was  used  at  a 
Government  Cabinet  meeting. 

Just  about  that  time,  the  leading  organ  of  the 
English  aristocracy  had  a two-column  leading  article 
on  the  subject  of  Commandant  Dan  Gallagher.  In 
the  course  of  the  article  a short  survey  of  Gallagher’s 
life  was  given  sarcastically.  The  following  is  an  ex- 
tract from  the  article: 

. . This  flower  of  Irish  manhood  grew  on  an  obscure 
dunghill,  in  the  daily  practice  of  all  these  virtues,  which 
are  indigenous  to  the  Irish  soil,  if  one  is  to  believe  the 
flowery  utterances  of  the  politicians  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day. 
His  father  was  a small  peasant  farmer  in  Kilkenny. 
Having  assisted  very  probably  in  the  gentle  assassina- 
tion of  a few  of  his  landlord’s  agents  in  the  past,  rever- 
ently decided  to  devote  the  activities  of  his  promising 
son  to  the  service  of  his  God.  But  Daniel  would  have 
none  of  it.  He  was  meant  for  other  fields  of  conquest. 
He  succeeded  in  making  himself  famous  in  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal seminary  in  which  he  was  being  prepared  for  the 
priesthood,  by  smashing  the  skull  of  one  of  the  Roman 
priests  during  a dispute  on  the  playground.  The  instru- 
ment used  in  this  display  of  boyish  gaiety  was  the  favour- 
ite Irish  weapon,  a huriing  stick. 

89 


THE  INFORMER 


“The  young  Fionn  McCumhaill  was  expelled  and  fled 
the  country.  He  drifted  around  for  eight  years  without 
a trace  of  his  whereabouts.  Very  possibly  he  spent  the 
time  in  the  United  States.  We  can  well  imagine  that  he 
was  favourably  received  among  those  organizations  in 
the  United  States  which  are  governed  by  Irishmen  intent 
on  the  destruction  of  the  British  Empire  by  conspiracy, 
murder,  slander,  and  all  the  other  delectable  schemes 
that  come  to  life  so  readily  in  the  Gaelic  brain.  We 
can  imagine  him  perfecting  himself  in  the  arts  of  gun- 
manship,  deceit  and  those  obscure  forms  of  libidinous 
vice  which  are  said  to  be  practiced  by  this  morose  type 
of  revolutionary  in  order  to  dull  his  sensibilities  into 
an  apathy  which  the  consciousness  of  even  the  most 
horrible  enormities  cannot  penetrate.  . . . 

“At  any  rate  he  has  returned  to  his  beloved  motherland 
endowed  liberally  with  those  qualities  which  make  him 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  all  Irishmen  of  murderous  in- 
clinations. These  latter  unfortunately  form  as  yet  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  population  of  Ireland. 
Mr.  Gallagher  has  a powerful  and  enthusiastic  follow- 
ing. 

“His  brand  of  Communism  is  of  the  type  that  appeals 
most  to  the  Irish  nature.  It  is  a mixture  of  Roman 
Catholicism,  Nationalist  Republicanism  and  Bolshevism. 
Its  chief  rallying  cries  are:  ‘Loot  and  Murder.’”  . . . 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  an  article  which 
appeared  a little  while  later  in  the  columns  of  the 
official  organ  of  the  American  Revolutionary  Organ- 
ization: 


90 


THE  INFORMER 


“When  the  glorious  history  of  the  struggle  for  prole- 
tarian liberation  in  Ireland  comes  to  be  written,  the 
name  of  Comrade  Dan  Gallagher  will  stampede  from 
cover  to  cover  in  one  uninterrupted  blaze  of  glory.  . . . 
No  other  living  man  has  given  nobler  service  to  the  world 
revolution  than  this  sturdy  fighter,  who  rules  the  workers 
of  Dublin  with  greater  power  than  is  wielded  by  the 
Irish  bourgeoisie,  who  are  still  nominally  in  the  saddle. 
The  collapse  of  the  farm-workers’  strike  need  not  dis- 
hearten those  comrades  who  expected  great  things  from 
the  hoisting  of  the  red  flag  at  M last  October.  Com- 

rade Gallagher  has  not  seen  fit  as  yet  to  call  the  Irish 
bourgeois  bluff.  When  the  time  arrives.  . . 

In  November  a representative  of  the  International 
Executive  of  the  Revolutionary  Organization  was 
sent  over  from  the  Continent  to  make  a special  report 
on  the  situation  in  Ireland.  The  following  is  an  ex- 
tract from  a secret  report  drawn  up  by  him,  after 
spending  three  months  in  Ireland  secretly  touring  the 
country : 

“.  . . For  the  moment  it  would  be  a tactical  blunder 
to  expel  Comrade  Gallagher  from  the  International.  At 
the  same  time  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Irish 
Section  has  deviated  entirely  from  the  principles  of 
revolutionary  Communism  as  laid  down  in  the  laws  of 
the  International.  Comrade  Gallagher  rules  the  national 
Organization  purely  and  simply  as  a dictator.  There 
is  a semblance  of  an  Executive  Committee  but  only  in 
name.  The  tactics  are  guided  by  whatever  whim  is 

91 


THE  INFORMER 


uppermost  in  Comrade  Gallagher’s  mind  at  the  moment. 
Contrary  to  the  orders  issued  from  Head-quarters,  the 
Organization  is  still  purely  military  and  has  made  hardly 
any  attempt  to  come  into  the  open  as  a legal  political 
party.  This  is  perhaps  not  entirely  due  to  Comrade 
Gallagher’s  fault.  There  are  local  causes,  arising  out 
of  the  recent  struggle  for  national  independence,  which 
has  left  the  working  class  in  the  grip  of  a romantic  love 
of  conspiracy,  a strong  religious  and  bourgeois-nationalist 
outlook  on  life  and  a hatred  of  constitutional  methods. 
This  makes  it  difficult  for  the  moment  to  check  Comrade 
Gallagher’s  hold  , . .” 


92 


CHAPTER  VII 


Gallagher’s  eyes  had  opened  wide  when 
the  three  men  came  into  the  room.  Then 
they  narrowed  until  they  became  thin  slits 
under  their  long  black  lashes.  He  nodded  to  Mul- 
holland  and  Connor.  Then  he  stared  at  Gypo. 

Gypo  returned  the  stare.  The  two  men,  unlike  in 
their  features  and  bodies,  were  exactly  alike  in  the 
impassivity  of  their  stare.  Gypo’s  face  was  like  a 
solid  and  bulging  granite  rock,  impregnable  but 
lacking  that  intelligence  that  is  required  by  strength 
in  order  to  be  able  to  conquer  men.  Gallagher’s  face 
was  less  powerful  physically,  but  it  was  brimful  of 
intelligence.  The  forehead  was  high  and  it  seemed 
to  surround  the  face.  The  eyes  were  large  and  wide 
apart.  The  nose  was  long  and  straight.  The 
mouth  was  thin-lipped.  The  jaws  were  firm  but 
slender  and  refined  like  a woman’s  jaws.  The  whole 
face  had  absolutely  no  colour,  but  there  was  a con- 
stant movement  in  the  cheeks,  as  if  tiny  streams 
were  coursing  irregularly  beneath  the  smooth  glossy 
skin.  The  hair  was  coal-black  and  cut  close.  The 
ears  were  large.  The  neck  opened  out  gradually 

93 


THE  INFORMER 

from  the  base  of  the  shoulders  on  either  side,  like  a 
hill  disappearing  into  a plain. 

Then  he  jumped  off  his  high  stool  and  stood  with 
his  legs  wide  apart  in  front  of  Gypo.  He  was  five 
feet  eleven  inches  and  a half  in  height,  but  Gypo 
towered  over  him  with  his  extra  two  inches.  Gal- 
lagher wore  a loose  brown  raincoat,  from  his  throat 
almost  to  his  ankles,  that  made  his  well-built  frame 
look  larger  and  stouter.  Yet  Gypo,  standing  bare 
in  his  dungarees  that  were  now  almost  sodden  with 
rain,  looked  immense  compared  to  him.  Gallagher 
held  his  hands  in  his  raincoat  pockets  thrust  in  front 
of  his  body,  as  if  he  were  pointing  pistols  at  Gypo. 
Gypo  held  his  hands  loosely  by  his  sides,  two  vast 
red  hands  hanging  limply  from  whitish  round  wrists. 
Gallagher  wore  a broad-brimmed  black  velour  hat  of 
a fashionable  make.  Gypo’s  tattered  little  round 
hat  was  still  perched  on  his  skull,  like  a tiny  school 
cap  on  an  overgrown  youngster. 

They  looked  at  one  another,  the  one,  handsome, 
well  dressed,  confident  and  indifferent;  the  other 
crude,  ragged,  amazed,  anxious. 

“Well,  Gypo,”  drawled  Gallagher,  in  the  irritating, 
contemptuous  tone  that  he  affected.  “Ye  don’t 
seem  glad  to  see  me.” 

“Can’t  say  that  I am,”  replied  Gypo  curtly,  almost 
without  moving  his  lips.  “I  don’t  see  no  reason  to 
be  glad  to  see  ye,  Commandant  Gallagher.  Ye  were 
never  a friend  o’  mine,  an’  I ain’t  in  the  habit  o’ 

94 


THE  INFORMER 

crawlin’  on  me  belly  to  anybody  that  don’t  like  me. 
I’m  not  one  o’  yer  pet  lambs  any  more,  so  ye  needn’t 
do  any  bleatin’  as  far  as  I’m  concerned.  One  man  is 
as  good  as  another  in  this  rotten  ould  world.  I’m 
usin’  yer  own  words,  amn’t  I?” 

Gallagher  laughed  out  loud,  a merry  laugh  that 
showed  his  white  teeth.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  took  a turn  around  the  room.  He  took  a packet 
of  cigarettes  from  his  pocket  as  he  walked  and 
selected  one.  He  kept  laughing  until  he  paused  to 
light  the  cigarette  over  near  the  stained-glass  window. 

“Yer  a queer  fish,  Gypo,”  he  said,  again  laughing, 
as  he  paused  to  throw  the  used  match  into  a spittoon. 

Then  he  cast  a glance  all  round  the  room  and  came 
back  again  to  Gypo.  Mulholland  and  Connor 
watched  him  all  the  time  with  that  loving  interest 
with  which  a crowd  watches  the  movements  of  a 
champion  boxer  who  is  walking  around  the  ring  in 
his  dressing-gown,  preparatory  to  a big  fight.  They 
smiled  when  Gallagher  laughed.  They  stopped 
smiling  when  he  stopped  laughing. 

Gypo,  on  the  other  hand,  watched  Gallagher’s 
movements  angrily.  He  felt  a desire  to  pounce  on 
him  and  crush  him  to  death  before  he  could  do  any 
harm. 

Then  Gallagher  came  up  to  him  and  caught  him 
by  the  right  shoulder  in  a friendly  and  confidential 
manner. 

“Listen  Gypo,”  he  said.  “You’ve  got  a grudge 
95 


THE  INFORMER 

against  me  no  doubt  for  getting  you  expelled  from 
the  Organization,  but  you  have  nobody  to  blame  but 
yourself.  I sent  ye  down,  on  the  orders  of  the 
Executive  Committee,  you  and  Frank  McPhillip, 
to  look  after  the  defence  work  of  the  strikers.  What 
orders  did  I give  the  two  of  you?  Can  you  remem- 
ber? Well,  I’ll  remind  you.  To  keep  off  the 

BOOZE  AND  NOT  TO  USE  THE  LEAD  UNLESS  YOU  WERE 

attacked.  But  what  did  you  do?  The  very  first 
thing,  the  two  of  you  got  hold  of  two  women.  That, 
of  course,  must  have  been  Frankie’s  work  because  I 
don’t  suppose  you  were  ever  a great  magnet  among 
the  women.  Women  were  Frankie’s  weak  spot, 
damn  it.  But  anyhow,  it  doesn’t  matter  very  much 
which  of  you  started  the  hunt.  You  tasted  the  honey 
as  well  as  he  did  it,  as  far  as  was  reported  to  me. 

The  two  of  you  got  drunk  at  M in  company 

with  these  two  women.  You  got  so  mad  drunk  that 
McPhillip  went  to  shoot  up  the  town.  You  might 
have  assisted  him  in  that  pastime,  but  your  time  was 
occupied  trying  to  pull  a lamp-post  up  by  the  roots 
in  Oliver  Plunket  Street,  for  a bet  of  a gallon  of 
stout.  In  the  very  middle  of  your  entertainment, 
McPhillip  met  the  secretary  of  the  Farmers’  Union 
and  shot  him  dead.  That  made  you  get  over  your 
drunkenness  damn  quick,  didn’t  it?  The  two  of  you 
bolted  without  making  any  attempt  to  cover  your 
tracks.  You  ran  like  two  hares.  You  came  into 
Dublin  with  a red  herring  of  a story  about  an  attack 

96 


THE  INFORMER 

and  what  not.  It  was  a tall  yarn.  Well?  D’ye 
know  what  I’m  going  to  tell  you,  Gypo?” 

He  paused  dramatically  and  looked  Gypo  closely 
in  the  eyes.  Gypo  never  moved  a muscle  in  his 
face.  He  grunted  interrogatively  from  somewhere 
deep  down  in  his  chest.  Gallagher  continued  very 
slowly: 

“I’m  going  to  tell  you  this  much,  Gypo.  Only  for 
me,  you  wouldn’t  have  got  away  with  it  as  easily  as 
you  did  that  time.  There  were  others  who  wanted 
to  give  you  this,  for  disobeying  orders.” 

He  moved  his  right  hand  suddenly  beneath  his 
raincoat,  thrusting  it  forward  against  Gypo’s  lower 
ribs.  Gypo  felt  the  contact  of  a blunt  hard  metal. 
He  knew  it  was  the  muzzle  of  Gallagher’s  Colt 
automatic  pistol,  but  Gypo  took  no  notice  of  the 
pistol.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  pistol.  But  he  was 
afraid  of  Gallagher’s  eyes  into  which  he  was  looking 
steadily.  He  didn’t  like  them.  They  were  so  cold 
and  blue  and  mysterious.  Goodness  knows  what 
might  be  hidden  behind  them.  His  face  began  an 
irregular  chaotic  movement.  His  jaws,  cheek-bones, 
nose,  mouth  and  forehead  convulsed  in  opposite 
directions,  as  if  a draught  of  wind  had  stolen  in 
under  the  skin  of  his  face  and  caused  it  to  undulate. 
Then  the  face  set  again.  The  neck  swelled  and  the 
little  eyes  bulged. 

“No  use  tryin’  yer  tricks  on  me,  Danny  Gallagher,” 
he  growled,  knocking  the  pistol  muzzle  away  with  a 

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THE  INFORMER 

slight  movement  of  his  right  hand.  Although  the 
blow  was  slight,  it  caused  Gallagher  to  reel  back- 
wards two  paces  before  he  regained  his  balance. 
His  face  darkened  for  a moment  and  then  again  he 
broke  into  a smile.  Gypo  continued  in  a thunderous 
melancholy  voice:  “Gallagher,  I got  no  use  for  you. 
Them’s  all  lies  ye  were  fellin’  just  now  about  tryin’ 
to  save  me  life  when  I was  before  the  Court  of 
Inquiry  last  October.  I know  very  well  they  was. 
Yerrah,  are  ye  goin’  to  tell  me  that  yer  not  the  chief 
boss  an’  God  knows  what  in  the  Organization? 
Who  else  has  got  any  authority  in  it  except  yersel’? 
Yah.  I got  no  use  for  ye.  Yer  a liar.  Yer  no  good. 
An’  I’d  be  in  my  job  yet  in  the  police  only  for  ye  an’ 
yer  soft  talk.  It  was  you  that  got  me  outa  me  job 
with  yer  promises  o’  the  Lord  knows  what.  I declare 
to  Almighty  God  that  I done  more  for  yer  bloody 
Organization  than  any  other  man  in  Ireland.  I done 
things  that  no  man  unhung  could  do.  An’  ye  went 
an’  threw  me  out  on  account  of  an  ould  farmer  gettin’ 
plugged.  Me  an’  McPhillip.  What  did  we  get  for 
it?  Wha’  ...  ye  rotten  . . .” 

Gypo  rambled  off  incoherently  into  a long  string  of 
blasphemous  curses,  raising  his  voice  as  he  did  so. 
His  arms  were  raised  outwards  in  a curve  and  his 
head  was  lowered,  as  if  he  were  in  the  act  of  perform- 
ing a swimming  exercise.  He  frothed  at  the  mouth 
and  glared  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  three  men,  as 
if  undecided  which  to  attack  first. 

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THE  INFORMER 

Then  suddenly  a little  wooden  panel  in  the  wall  to 
the  right  was  raised  up  and  a pretty  red  head  was 
pushed  through.  It  was  Kitty  the  barmaid. 

“Lord  save  us,”  she  cried,  putting  her  fingers  to  her 
lips  as  she  looked  at  Gypo.  “Who  is  that  fellah? 
What’s  he  doin’  here,  Dan?” 

“That’s  all  right,  Kitty,”  said  Gallagher  with  a 
light  laugh;  “he’s  a friend  of  mine.  We  are  having  a 
cursing  competition. 

And  he  laughed  heartily  as  he  walked  to  the  spit- 
toon with  the  stub  of  his  cigarette. 

Gypo  turned  around  and  looked  at  the  terrified 
face  of  the  barmaid.  As  he  looked  at  her  beautiful 
face  and  her  pretty  soft  hair  that  shimmered  in  the 
artificial  light,  his  head  swam  and  his  eyes  went 
watery.  His  anger  left  his  body  immediately  so 
that  it  seemed  to  empty  and  collapse.  It  had  been 
rigid  and  like  a tree.  Now  it  became  loose  and 
jointless.  He  stood  with  stooping  head  and  wonder- 
ing eyes,  looking  at  the  barmaid. 

The  barmaid,  seeing  the  change  she  had  effected 
by  her  presence  in  the  unruly  giant,  grew  conceited. 
She  smiled  in  a superior  way  and  dabbed  at  her  hair. 
She  looked  around  at  the  others  with  an  air  of: 
“D’ye  all  see  that  now?” 

Then  Gallagher  came  up  to  the  aperture  jauntily, 
took  her  two  hands  in  his  and  looked  enticingly  into 
her  eyes.  Her  eyes  winced  for  a moment  as  if  she 
had  become  suddenly  afraid.  Then  she  smiled 

99 


THE  INFORMER 

softly,  wearily,  like  a woman  passionately  in  love. 
Gallagher  bent  down  his  head  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  her  ear.  She  burst  into  a loud  laugh. 
Gallagher  smiled,  listening  to  her.  Then  he  sud- 
denly sighed  and  rapped  the  counter  curtly. 

“Four  glasses  of  Jameson’s  quickly,”  he  said  in  a 
low  sharp  cold  voice. 

The  barmaid  stopped  laughing  as  suddenly  as  if 
she  had  been  stricken  by  a pain.  She  pulled  down 
the  shutter,  lisping  as  she  did  so:  “Yes  Dan.” 

Gallagher  came  back  to  Gypo  and  put  his  hand 
again  on  Gypo’s  shoulder.  Gypo  had  his  two  hands 
now  in  his  trousers  pockets.  After  his  unsuccessful 
outburst  he  felt  tired.  He  wanted  to  go  away  some- 
where and  lie  down  and  sleep  for  days  and  days. 
His  mind  was  in  a maze.  He  was  very  tired.  As  he 
looked  at  Gallagher  he  even  felt  a longing  to  confide 
his  secret  to  him.  Gallagher’s  eyes  were  so  devilishly 
attractive.  They  seemed  to  draw  things  out  of  Gypo 
towards  themselves.  They  would  be  able  to  form  a 
plan  and  . . . 

Gypo  had  uttered  one  syllable  of  Gallagher’s  name 
before  he  realized  the  real  identity  of  the  man  and 
the  consequences  of  a confession  to  him.  The  name 
died  on  his  lips.  Gallagher  smiled. 

“Gypo,  old  boy,”  he  said  in  a friendly  tone,  “ye 
had  better  forget  all  that’s  past.  We’ve  got  some- 
thing on  hand  that’s  as  much  your  business  as  ours. 
So  we  can  act  together  on  it.  That’s  why  I sent 

100 


THE  INFORMER 

Bartly  Mulholland  into  McPhillip’s  house  to  look 
for  ye.  A pal  of  yours  has  been  done  in  by  the 
police.  D’ye  hear?  It  looks  like  an  informer’s  job. 
We  have  to  get  that  informer.  It’s  really  no  business 
of  the  Organization  because  Frank  had  ceased  to  be 
a member.  He  was  only  an  ordinary  civilian  crim- 
inal as  far  as  we  are  concerned.  But  an  informer  is 
an  informer.  He’s  got  to  be  wiped  out  like  the  first 
sign  of  a plague  as  soon  as  he’s  spotted.  He’s  a 
common  enemy.  He’s  got  to  be  got,  Gypo.  And  it’s 
up  to  you  to  give  us  a hand  in  tracking  the  traitor 
that  sent  your  pal  to  his  death.  Because  . . .” 

At  that  moment  the  slide  was  drawn  up  again 
sharply  and  the  barmaid  appeared  at  the  aperture 
with  four  glasses  of  whisky  on  a tray.  Gallagher 
went  to  the  aperture,  paid  for  the  whisky,  handed 
glasses  to  Connor  and  Mulholland,  received  his 
change,  pinched  the  barmaid’s  cheek  and  made  her 
scream,  laughed,  pulled  down  the  shutter  himself 
and  then  advanced  smiling  to  Gypo  with  a glass  of 
whisky  in  each  hand.  He  held  out  one  glass  to 
Gypo.  Gypo  stared  at  it  without  making  any  move- 
ment to  take  it  or  reject  it. 

He  had  followed  all  Gallagher’s  movements  with 
the  stupid  and  suspicious  wonder  of  a terrified  wild 
animal  that  thinks  some  trick  is  being  played  on  it. 
Now  he  stared  at  the  glass  as  if  he  suspected  some 
trick  in  that  too. 

“Take  it,”  said  Gallagher  coldly.  “Take  it,  man, 

101 


THE  INFORMER 

if  you’ve  any  sense.  It’s  better  to  have  me  as  a 
friend  than  as  an  enemy.  If  you  are  not  going  to 
help  us  in  this  job  . . . er  . . . people  might  think 
. . . er  . . . that  . . .” 

“Uh,”  began  Gypo  with  a shrug  of  his  whole  body. 
Then  he  stopped  panting.  He  went  on,  speaking  at 
a very  high  pitch.  “It’s  not  that  but  . . . Look 
here  . . . It’s  how  . . .”  His  voice  suddenly  deep- 
ened into  a hoarse  shout,  “It’s  how  I don’t  know 
what  I’m  doin’.” 

He  stopped.  Gallagher  glanced  at  Mulholland. 
Mulholland’s  cat’s  eyes  both  winked  inperceptibly. 

“I’ve  been  starvin’  here  for  the  past  six  months,” 
continued  Gypo,  suddenly  breaking  out  into  a tor- 
rent of  words.  He  talked  like  a negro,  hollow, 
thunderous  and  melancholy.  “I’ve  been  kicking 
about  this  town  an’  every  one  o’  you  fellahs  I met 
passed  me  by  without  a word  as  if  I never  knew  ye. 
I been  over  in  the  House  there,  livin’  from  hand 
to  mouth  on  whatever  I could  bum  from  sailors  and 
pimps  and  dockers.  I got  no  clothes.  I got  no 
money.  I got  nothin’.  An’  then  you  come  up  all  of 
a sudden  with  yer  soft  talk.  Well  . . . uh  . . . 
how  is  it  that  . . .” 

He  came  to  a stop  once  more  with  his  chest  heav- 
ing. He  seemed  to  be  about  to  go  into  a rage  once 
more,  but  suddenly  Gallagher  moved  closer  to  him 
and  whispered  gently  and  soothingly: 

“Look  here,  Gypo.  I’m  going  to  make  a fair  deal 
102 


THE  INFORMER 

with  you.  I’ll  admit  you  have  done  a lot  for  the 
movement.  You  have  paid  the  penalty  during  the 
last  six  months  for  the  dangerous  position  you  placed 
the  whole  Organization  in  last  October.  We’ll  call 
that  quits  on  one  condition.  If  you  can  give  us  a 
clue  to  the  man  that  informed  on  Francis  Joseph 
McPhillip  I’ll  get  ye  taken  back  again  into  the 
Organization  at  yer  old  job  on  Head-quarters  Staff. 
Here.  Take  this  drink.” 

Gypo’s  hand  shot  out  immediately.  He  grasped 
the  glass  and  Gallagher’s  hand  both  together  in  his 
immense  paw.  The  two  men  almost  struggled  trying 
to  disengage  their  hands.  As  soon  as  the  glass  was 
free  Gypo  put  it  to  his  lips  and  drained  it.  Then  he 
stalked  slowly  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  placed 
the  empty  glass  on  it.  With  his  back  to  his  com- 
panions he  paused  to  wipe  his  mouth  with  his  sleeve. 

He  wanted  time  to  compose  himself.  Gallagher’s 
proposal  had  taken  him  so  completely  by  surprise 
that  he  was  beside  himself.  Since  that  infernal 
moment  when  he  kicked  open  the  door  of  the  police- 
station,  his  whole  life  had  been  submerged  in  a pitch- 
black  cloud  that  was  impenetrable  and  offered  no 
escape.  He  had  been  alone,  outcast,  encompassed 
by  a universal  horde  of  enemies.  Now,  suddenly, 
he  was  offered  a means  of  escape  by  the  great  Gal- 
lagher himself.  Gallagher,  the  great  Gallagher,  had 
made  him  an  offer.  He  would  get  back  again  into 
the  Organization.  Again  people  would  be  afraid 

103 


THE  INFORMER 

of  him.  Again  clever  men  would  be  always  at  hand 
to  make  plans  for  him,  to  provide  him  with  money 
for  doing  daring  things,  to  protect  him,  to  praise 
his  recklessness,  his  strength  and  his  . . . Mother 
of  Mercy!  What  Luck! 

As  he  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve  at  the  counter 
an  insane  idea  struck  him,  such  was  his  eagerness  to 
qualify  immediately  for  readmission  to  the  Organiza- 
tion. For  a moment  he  contemplated  the  man  who 
had  gone  into  the  police-station  as  a being  apart 
from  himself.  Sound  began  to  gurgle  up  his  throat. 
It  was  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  his  present  person- 
ality to  speak  and  deliver  information  against  that 
dazed  Gypo  Nolan  who  had  stumbled  into  the  police- 
station.  But  the  sound  froze  in  his  throat,  in  a ball, 
hurting  him  as  if  his  tonsils  had  swollen  suddenly. 
He  realized  that  he  himself  was  one  with  that  pon- 
derous fellow,  wearing  a little  tattered  round  hat, 
who  had  gone  into  the  police-station.  It  was  only 
another  artifice  on  the  part  of  something  within 
him,  his  conscience  maybe,  to  persuade  him  to  make 
a confession  of  his  betrayal. 

That  same  impulse  had  confused  him  all  the  time 
that  he  was  looking  at  Mrs.  McPhillip. 

And  then,  just  as  in  the  public-house,  when  he  had 
been  terrified  by  Katie  Fox,  his  mind  had  given 
birth  to  an  insane  plan  about  a sailor  in  a tavern, 
so  now  also  his  mind  conceived  an  amazing  fabri- 
cation. It  entered  his  brain  suddenly,  like  a thun- 

104 


THE  INFORMER 

der-storm,  with  noise  and  fury.  His  face  and  eyes 
lit  up.  He  opened  his  mouth.  He  walked  over  to 
Gallagher  quickly  and  spoke  in  a hissing  whisper. 

“I’ll  tell  ye  who  informed,”  he  gasped.  “It’s  the 
Rat  Mulligan.  It’s  him  as  sure  as  Christ  was 
crucified.” 

The  three  men  gathered  up  close  to  him.  They  all 
looked  behind  them  suspiciously  and  then  stared  at 
him  with  narrowed  eyes.  There  was  a moment  of 
tense  silence.  Then  each  drew  a deep  breath.  Con- 
nor slipped  his  finger  over  the  trigger  of  his  revolver. 

“The  Rat  Mulligan!”  exclaimed  Gallagher  at 
length.  “How  d’ye  make  that  out,  Gypo?” 

“I’ll  tell  ye,”  cried  Gypo  triumphantly.  Then  he 
paused  again  and  looked  about  him  with  furrowed 
brows  dramatically.  “I  didn’t  like  to  say  anythin’ 
mesel’  for  reasons  that  everybody  knows.  A man 
can  never  be  sure  of  a thing  like  that.  An’  God 
knows  it’s  a quare  charge  to  bring  agin  a man.  But 
as  ye  put  it  the  way  ye  put  it,  Commandant,  about 
him  bein’  me  pal  an’  me  duty  to  the  Cause,  well  . . . 
Still!  Poor  Mulligan!” 

“Oh,  come  on,”  cried  Gallagher  twitching  with 
excitement.  “Get  finished  with  what  you  have  to 
say.  Make  your  statement,  man.” 

But  Gypo  was  not  to  be  hurried.  An  amazing 
arrogance  had  taken  possession  of  him.  He  reached 
out  towards  the  glass  of  whisky  that  Gallagher  still 
held  untasted  in  his  hand. 

105 


THE  INFORMER 

“Gimme  that,  Commandant,”  he  said,  “seein’  as 
yer  not  tastin’  it.”  Gallagher  nervously  handed  him 
the  drink.  “Thanks.  Here’s  luck.  Ah!  Good 
stuff  that.  Well.  This  is  how  it  was.  Just  after 
Frankie  left  me  in  the  dining-room,  I suddenly 
thought  to  mesel’  that  I had  better  run  after  him  and 
try  an’  head  him  off  from  goin’  home.  I had  been 
tryin’  to  make  him  clear  out  of  town  again  an’  not  go 
near  Titt  Street,  but  the  same  cranky  fellah  that  he 
always  was  wouldn’t  listen  to  a word  of  what  I said. 
So  that  I said  to  mesel’,  Lord  have  mercy  on  him, 
‘Well,  me  fine  fellah,  I’m  not  goin’  to  get  mesel’  into 
a fever,  tryin’  to  keep  ye  outa  harm’s  way  an’  get 
cursed  upside  down  for  doin’  so.’  Well  anyway,  as 
soon  as  he  had  gone,  I decided  to  follow  him  and  give 
him  a last  shout.  I ran  out  into  the  hall  an’  who  do 
I see  but  the  Rat  sneakin’  around  the  corner.  I ran 
down  the  hall.  There  was  the  Rat  at  the  door  with 
his  hands  in  his  overcoat  pockets  peerin’  up  the  lane. 
Then  he  dived  out  into  the  street,  I chased  after 
him.  I was  just  in  time  to  see  Frankie  turnin’  the 
corner  into  the  road  with  the  Rat  crawlin’  after  him. 
It’s  as  clear  as  daylight.  So  it  is.  Lord  have  mercy 
on  the  dead,  if  I had  only  thought  of  it  at  the  time, 
Frankie  might  have  been  alive  at  this  minute  instead 
o’  bein’  a frozen  corpse.  Give  us  another  drink, 
Commandant.  Me  throat  is  parched.” 

Without  a word  or  a glance  Gallagher  walked  up 
to  the  counter  and  rapped  at  the  aperture.  Gypo 

106 


THE  INFORMER 

did  not  even  condescend  to  follow  his  movements. 
His  conceit  was  now  boundless.  He  realized  that  he 
himself  was  amazingly  cunning.  He  even  felt  a con- 
tempt for  Gallagher  in  his  mind.  As  for  Mulholland 
and  Connor  . . . He  glanced  at  them  appraisingly, 
as  a man  might  glance  at  a useful  pair  of  dogs.  It 
was  the  same  kind  of  glance  that  Gallagher  was 
in  the  habit  of  directing  towards  everybody. 

Gallagher  brought  a fresh  glass  of  whisky  and 
handed  it  to  him.  He  took  it  without  a word  of 
thanks.  He  walked  to  the  spittoon  and  emptied  his 
mouth  into  it.  Then  he  swallowed  the  drink  again 
at  one  draught.  He  put  the  empty  glass  on  the 
mantelpiece  and  coughed  deeply.  He  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  back  with  a loud  sound.  He  began 
to  balance  himself  backwards  and  forwards  on  his 
heels  like  a policeman. 

“How  didn’t  I think  of  it  before?”  he  cried,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  the  ceiling. 

He  was  completely  immersed  now  in  the  contem- 
plation of  his  own  cleverness.  He  did  not  notice  the 
utter  silence  with  which  his  story  had  been  received 
by  Gallagher  and  the  other  two  men.  He  was  con- 
templating with  pleasure  the  old  days,  when  he  had 
a criminal  in  his  charge,  in  the  cells,  at  the  police- 
station.  He  used  to  stand  for  a whole  hour  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night,  baiting  the  prisoner,  terror- 
izing him  with  his  eyes,  with  a sudden  display  of 
strength,  with  a mad  laugh,  with  silent  staring.  He 

107 


THE  INFORMER 

was  feeling  that  same  sensation  now.  Exhilarated 
by  the  whisky  he  had  drunk  and  carried  away  by 
the  concentrated  nerve  strain  of  the  past  few  hours, 
he  imagined  that  he  had  Gallagher  and  the  other 
two  men  at  his  mercy,  that  he  was  a policeman  and 
that  they  were  civilians  who  were  asking  a favour  of 
him,  an  illegal  favour  that  put  them  in  his  power. 
It  was  just  that  way  in  the  old  days,  when  he  used  to 
sell  Gallagher  little  tit-bits  of  information  over  a 
drink;  little  harmless,  he  thought,  bits  of  informa- 
tion, about  head-quarters  routine  and  the  disposition 
of  the  detective-force  personnel. 

“Think  of  what  before?”  Gallagher  remarked 
coldly. 

He  spoke  slowly  and  casually,  looking  at  Gypo 
in  a brooding  way. 

“Why,  I mean  the  grudge  that  the  Rat  had  in  for 
Frankie,”  Gypo  replied  confidentially  and  with  an 
air  of  great  importance. 

“What  grudge  are  you  referring  to?” 

“Oh,  it’s  a long  story,”  said  Gypo  with  a sigh,  as  he 
walked  over  to  the  spittoon  and  spat  into  it.  Then 
he  hitched  up  his  trousers.  He  cleared  his  throat 
with  a tremendous  noise.  It  was  very  tantalizing. 
“Stand  us  another  drink,  Commandant,  before  they 
close,”  he  cried  suddenly,  with  amazing  nonchalance. 

“By  the  lumpin’  Moses!”  ejaculated  Gallagher. 
“You’re  a cool  customer,  Gypo.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well 
now!  You’re  worth  another  drink  anyway.” 

108 


THE  INFORMER 

He  winked  secretly  at  Mulholland  and  Connor  as 
he  walked  over  to  the  aperture.  Gypo  called  after 
him  almost  contemptuously. 

“Hurry  up,”  he  said,  as  he  looked  at  the  clock  with 
a scowling  face,  “we  only  have  another  minute.  It’s 
a minute  to  eleven.” 

Again  four  glasses  of  whisky  were  passed  around. 
Gypo  took  his  and  swallowed  it  at  a draught.  This 
time  he  took  the  glass  from  Gallagher’s  hand  with- 
out asking  for  it.  He  swallowed  that  also  at  a 
draught,  as  if  he  were  going  through  a public  ex- 
hibition of  his  drinking  powers.  Mulholland  and 
Connor  swallowed  their  drinks  hurriedly,  as  if  they 
were  afraid  that  he  was  going  to  take  theirs  too.  He 
walked  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  put  the  two 
empty  glasses  on  it.  He  looked  at  the  five  glasses  he 
had  emptied  and  smiled  broadly.  He  whacked  his 
chest  with  a loud  sound. 

“Come  on  now,  comrade,”  said  Gallagher  sharply, 
“out  with  your  news.  No  fooling.” 

“All  right,”  said  Gypo,  thrusting  forward  his  huge 
head  so  that  it  looked  like  a battering-ram,  suddenly 
attached  to  his  collar-bone.  “D’ye  remember  the 
Rat’s  sister  Cusie?  She  used  to  be  a member  o’  the 
Organization.  She ” 

“All  right,”  snapped  Gallagher  angrily.  “I  remem- 
ber her.  What  about  her?  What  has  she  got  to  do 
with  it?” 

“Well,  why  wouldn’t  she  have  a lot  to  do  with  it? 

109 


THE  INFORMER 


She  had  a baby,  didn’t  she?  Didn’t  she  leave ” 

“What  d’you  know  about  her  baby?”  hissed  Galla- 
gher. He  was  deadly  pale. 

“Don’t  get  yer  rag  out,  Commandant,”  leered 
Gypo  with  a broad  laugh.  He  was  slightly  drunk 
and  insolent.  “Hit  a sore  spot,  wha’?  Well,  I 
don’t  know  anythin’  about  that.  Ye  can  set  yer 
mind  at  rest.  Frank  McPhillip  was  the  father  o’ 
that  kid  an’  he  refused  to  marry  her.  I remember 
me  an’  him  were  at  the  back  o’  Cassidy’s  havin’  a 
pint  one  night,  when  somebody  came  in  an’  asked 
Frankie  to  step  around  the  corner  a minute.  He 
was  gone  a long  time  so  I followed  him,  suspectin’ 
that  there  might  be  a bit  o’  foul  play.  But  I found 
him  an’  Susie  jawin’  away  to  beat  the  band.  She 
was  cryin’  an’  askin’  him  to  take  her  away  with  him 
somewhere.  O’  course  he  didn’t  budge.  Next  day 
she  went  to  the  ’Pool.  Gone  on  Lime  Street,  as  far 
as  I can  hear.  Well!  You  bet  yer  life  that’s  why 
the  Rat  did  it.  That’s  why  he  informed.” 

Gallagher  looked  at  Mulholland.  Mulholland 
wrinkled  his  forehead  and  shook  his  head  slightly. 
Then  he  looked  at  Gypo  curiously.  Connor’s  mouth 
was  wide  open  and  there  was  a look  of  wonder  in  his 
eyes  as  he  gaped  at  Gypo.  Gypo  was  tightening  his 
trousers  belt. 

“Well,  Commandant,”  he  said,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, “Yer  word  holds  good  about  takin’  me  back 
into  the  Organization?” 


110 


THE  INFORMER 

“Steady  on,”  murmured  Gallagher  dreamily,  star- 
ing at  the  ground.  “We  have  to  verify  your  state- 
ment first.  If  your  statement  is  true  you’ll  get  back 
all  right.”  Suddenly  he  looked  up,  smiling,  with 
sparkling  eyes.  He  seized  Gypo  by  the  right  hand 
and  smiled  into  his  face  in  a friendly  intimate  way. 
“Listen.  There’s  a Court  of  Inquiry  to-night  at 
half-past  one.  Be  there.  Mulholland  will  take  you 
up  there.  You  can  arrange  to  meet  him  somewhere. 
You  can  rely  on  me,  comrade,  to  fix  you  up  again. 
You  did  good  work  before,  comrade,  and  you’ll  do 
good  work  again  for  the  liberation  of  your  class.” 

Gypo  gripped  Gallagher’s  hand  and  squeezed  it 
eagerly.  Then  he  clicked  his  heels  and  saluted  in  a 
grandiose  fashion.  Then  he  turned  to  Mulholland. 

“I’ll  be  at  Biddy  Burke’s  place,”  he  whispered; 
“about  one  o’clock.  I’ll  see  ye  there.” 

“Right  ye  are,”  answered  Mulholland. 

“Good  night,  boys,”  cried  Gypo  in  a loud  hearty 
voice. 

Then  he  stalked  out  of  the  room,  striking  the  floor 
with  his  heels  fiercely  and  clearing  his  throat. 

They  all  looked  after  him  in  silence  for  two 
seconds.  Then  somebody  called,  “Time,  gentlemen, 
time.”  Gallagher  started. 

“\Vell,  I’ll  be  damned,”  he  cried,  striking  his  left 
hand  into  his  right. 

“It’s  him,”  hissed  Connor,  rushing  up  to  Gallagher 
with  open  mouth. 


Ill 


THE  INFORMER 


“Shut  up,  you  fool,”  snapped  Gallagher. 

“Listen,  Commandant,”  cried  Mulholland  excit- 
edly; “it’s  him.  I’ll  swear  it  is,  because ” 

“Damn  you,”  snarled  Gallagher,  “who  is  asking 
your  opinion?  Give  me  your  report.  Quick,  quick. 
Don’t  make  a song  of  it.” 

In  short  jerky  statements,  with  rapid  gestures, 
Mulholland  described  all  that  had  happened  at  No. 
44  Titt  Street,  Gypo’s  excitement,  the  falling  of  the 
money  to  the  floor,  Gypo’s  giving  it  to  Mrs.  Mc- 
Phillip,  his  rush  from  the  house.  Then  suddenly  he 
began  in  a whining  voice  to  recount  all  he  had  done 
since  he  had  been  mobilized  at  eight  o’clock  on 
receipt  of  the  news  of  Francis  McPhillip’s  death. 
But  Gallagher  cut  him  short. 

“Cut  that  out,”  he  cried.  “Did  the  police  find  any 
papers  at  No.  44?  No.  Good.  Was  anything 
found  on  the  body?  You  don’t  know.  Well,  you 
better  find  out  to-morrow  at  the  inquest.  Now  beat 
it.  Keep  at  Gypo’s  heels  like  a pot  of  glue.  Find 
out  every  damn  thing  you  can.  Bring  him  along 
sharp  to  the  Bogey  Hole  at  one-thirty.  Off.” 

Mulholland  disappeared  without  a word.  Galla- 
1 ' 1 ' ~ or. 


“You  Connor.  Mobilize  six  men  of  your  section. 


Get  him  to  the  Bogey  Hole. 


Get  busy.” 


Connor  mumbled  something  and  disappeared. 
Gallagher  remained  staring  at  the  ground,  alone, 


112 


THE  INFORMER 

lost  in  thought.  Drunken  voices  were  singing  in  the 
next  compartment.  Feet  were  shuffling.  A droning 
voice  cried  constantly:  “Time,  please,  gentlemen, 
time.” 

Gallagher’s  eyes  distended  dreamily.  He  sighed. 

“The  least  little  rift,”  he  murmured  to  himself, 
“and  everything  is  burst  open.  Then  it’s  all  up  with 
me.  I’ve  got  to  stamp  out  this  damned  informer 
whoever  he  is.  It  may  be  Gypo.  It  might  be  the 
Rat,  though  that’s  very  doubtful.  That’s  of  no  con- 
sequence. What  is  of  consequence  is  the  fact  that 
there  is  an  informer.  . . . Good  God!  An  informer 
is  the  great  danger.  Every  man’s  hand  is  against 
me.  It’s  only  fear  that  protects  me.  I must  make 
an  example  of  this  fallow.” 

His  voice  had  gradually  died  out.  Now  silence 
reigned  in  the  room  again.  The  room  was  hot  and 
stifling,  full  of  the  smell  of  stale  drink  and  tobacco. 
He  stared  at  the  floor. 

A cockroach  peered  out  of  its  hole,  contemplated  a 
blotch  of  drink  four  inches  away  from  its  snout  and 
then  disappeared  again.  It  would  come  out  later  on 
and  suck  the  blotch. 

The  distance  was  full  of  sound  as  if  many  things 
were  happening  there. 

Then  Gallagher  raised  his  head  with  a start.  He 
sighed  and  walked  rapidly  over  to  the  aperture.  He 
tapped  the  panel  with  his  knuckles.  It  was  raised  up 
almost  immediately.  The  pretty  red  head  appeared. 

113 


THE  INFORMER 

Gallagher  nodded.  The  red  head  disappeared  again 
and  the  slide  was  pulled  down.  Gallagher  waited. 
After  three  seconds  a little  door  to  the  left  was 
opened  quietly  and  the  barmaid  stepped  into  the 
room,  shutting  the  door  carefully  behind  her.  She 
rushed  immediately  to  Gallagher  and  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  He  kissed  her  lips  several  times 
rapidly.  Then  he  unwound  her  arms. 

“Got  anything  for  me?”  he  asked. 

She  nodded  and  took  a piece  of  paper  from  within 
the  breast  of  her  black  dress.  He  stuck  it  within  his 
raincoat. 

“Right,”  he  muttered  dreamily. 

Then  he  kissed  her  again  on  the  lips  and  patted 
her  cheek.  He  took  a pace  away,  but  she  grabbed 
at  him.  She  held  him,  looking  beseechingly  into  his 
face. 

“Have  ye  got  nothin’  to  say  to  me,  Dan?”  she 
whispered,  almost  sobbing. 

“For  goodness’  sake,  Kitty,  have  sense,”  he  mut- 
tered savagely.  “This  is  no  time  for  jig-acting.” 
He  put  a finger  to  his  throat.  “I’m  up  to  here  in  it. 
The  whole  Organization  is  in  danger.” 

“O  Lord!  What  is  it,  Dan?  Tell  me.” 

“An  informer.  See  ye  to-morrow.  Let  me  go. 
Good  night.” 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  Her  arms  loos- 
ened. He  was  gone.  She  looked  after  him  de- 

114 


THE  INFORMER 

jectedly.  Then  she  shivered  and  gripped  her 
breasts. 

Gallagher  walked  up  Titt  Street.  Here  and  there 
a workman  recognized  him  and  saluted  respect- 
fully. He  did  not  acknowledge  the  salutes.  He 
wheeled  sharply  in  at  the  door  of  No.  44  and 
knocked.  The  door  was  opened  almost  immediately 
by  Mary  McPhillip.  She  also  started  and  put  her 
hand  to  her  breast  when  she  saw  him. 

“Good  evening,  Mary/’  he  said  gently,  holding  out 
his  hand.  “May  I come  in?  I want  to  speak  to 
your  mother.” 

“Yes,”  said  Mary  excitedly;  “mother  is  in  the 
kitchen,  but  you  had  better  come  into  the  parlour. 
Father  is  in  the  kitchen,  too,  and  there  would 
surely  be  a row  if  he  saw  you.” 

“Oh,  that’s  all  right,”  said  Gallagher.  “Is  there 
anybody  else  there?” 

“No,  everybody  else  is  gone.” 

“Who  is  that  yer  talkin’  to,  Mary?”  came  Jack 
McPhillip’s  voice  from  the  kitchen. 

“Nobody  atall,  father,”  cried  Mary. 

“Don’t  I hear  a man’s  voice,”  cried  the  father. 
“Who  is  he?” 

“Hist!  It’s  all  right,”  whispered  Gallagher,  push- 
ing past  her  as  she  tried  to  speak  again.  “He  won’t 
bite  me.  It’s  just  me,  Mr.  McPhillip.  How  are 
you?  I’m  very  sorry  to  hear  of  your  trouble.” 

115 


THE  INFORMER 

The  two  of  them  met  at  the  kitchen  door.  They 
stared  at  one  another  for  a moment.  Then  Galla- 
gher made  a movement  to  come  forward  and  Mc- 
Phillip  with  a little  start,  moved  backwards.  He  did 
not  speak  until  he  was  near  the  bed  again. 

“Oh,  it’s  you,  is  it?”  he  said  angrily.  “An’  what 
brings  you  here  at  this  hour  of  the  night?” 

Gallagher  took  no  notice  of  him.  He  turned  to 
Mrs.  McPhillip  who  was  still  in  the  same  position 
by  the  fire,  telling  her  rosary  beads. 

“I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  Mrs.  McPhillip,”  he 
said  gently  and  respectfully,  “ in  the  middle  of  your 
. . . eh  . . . but  there’s  a question  or  two  I have 
to  ask  you  for  the  sake  of  him  that’s  dead.  Would 
you  be  kind  enough  to — ” 

“And  what  right  have  you  to  ask  a question  or 
two?”  cried  McPhillip,  raging  because  Gallagher 
had  refused  even  to  talk  to  him. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  bed  now.  He  sat  on  the  bed 
timidly,  as  if  he  were  in  somebody  else’s  house. 

Gallagher  turned  to  him  slowly  and  looked  at  him 
fiercely  in  the  eyes. 

“I  have  the  right,”  he  said,  “of  a revolutionary  to 
track  a traitor  to  the  cause.” 

“Ha!”  sneered  McPhillip.  “An’  what  kind  of  a 
revolutionary  d’ye  call  yersel’?” 

“A  revolutionary  Communist,”  answered  Galla- 
gher. 


116 


THE  INFORMER 

Then  he  turned  about  insolently  and  bent  down 
his  head  to  talk  to  Mrs.  McPhillip. 

Communist  be  damned/’  cried  McPhillip,  jump- 
ing off  the  bed.  D’ye  know  what  I’m  goin’  to  tell 
ye?  Ye ” 

“Father,”  cried  Mary,  wringing  her  hands, 
“don’t ” 

“Shut  up,  you  young  rip,”  stamped  the  father; 
“am  I master  in  me  own  house  or  am  I not?  You, 
ye  Communist,  as  ye  call  yersel’!  Yer  the  greatest 
scoundrel  in  Ireland.  Yer  the  greatest  enemy  o’ 
yer  class.  Now,  let  me  alone,  Mary,  or  I’ll  tan  yer 
skin  for  ye.  Let  me  tell  him.  . . . Let  me  . . . 
Let  go,”  he  screamed  shrilly,  as  she  seized  him 
tightly  about  the  body  and  began  to  push  him  forcibly 
from  the  room. 

He  placed  his  hands  and  feet  against  the  jambs 
of  the  door  and  turning  his  head  around,  he  con- 
tinued in  a half-hysterical  voice: 

“It’s  the  likes  o’  me  that’s  the  revolutionaries,  but 
we  get  no  credit  for  it.  It’s  the  likes  o’  me  that  does 
the  hard  work,  eddicatin’  me  fellow-men,  an’  at  the 
same  time  strikin’  an  honest  blow  for  better  condi- 
tions. But  men  like  you  are  criminals.  Criminals, 
criminals,  that’s  what  yez  are.  Don’t  lay  hands  on 
yer  father,  Mary.  Don’t ” 

“I’m  not  touching  you,”  cried  Mary.  “Come  on 
now.  Get  to  bed.” 


117 


THE  INFORMER 

She  got  him  into  the  hall.  He  sighed  and  broke 
into  half-stifled  sobs.  Going  up  the  stairs  he  kept 
saying  in  a low  melancholy  voice: 

“If  I had  only  put  him  on  the  scaffoldin’  with  me, 
instead  of  eddicatin’  him,  maybe  he’d  be  alive  an’  an 
honest  man  to-day.  If  I had  only  . . .” 

Then  his  voice  died  away  into  a mumble  as  a door 
closed  behind  him  upstairs. 

When  Mary  returned  to  the  kitchen  after  putting 
him  to  bed,  she  found  Gallagher  sitting  beside  her 
mother,  writing  rapidly  in  a notebook.  He  had 
taken  off  his  hat.  His  close-cropped  black  head 
looked  very  handsome  to  her.  Still  she  shivered 
looking  at  it.  The  side  face  looked  very  cruel,  with 
the  brooding  expression  on  it,  as  he  looked  down- 
wards at  the  notebook. 

She  stood  watching  him  until  he  finished  writing. 
Then  he  sighed.  He  got  up.  He  said  a few  words 
to  Mrs.  McPhillip.  Then  he  shook  hands  with  her 
and  turned  to  Mary. 

“I  want  to  speak  to  you,”  he  said. 

She  led  him  into  the  parlour  excitedly.  It  was 
dark  there  and  she  had  to  fumble  around  for  matches 
to  light  the  gas.  She  couldn’t  find  them.  Galla- 
gher offered  his  box.  He  lit  a match.  She  went  to 
take  it  from  him.  Their  fingers  touched.  She 
started  and  stumbled  over  something.  The  match 
fell  from  his  fingers  and  went  out.  He  reached  out 
his  hands  to  catch  her  as  she  stumbled.  He  caught 

118 


THE  INFORMER 

her  by  the  wrists  and  held  her  tightly.  They  had 
not  spoken  a word.  It  was  very  queer  in  the  dark- 
ness. Their  faces  were  very  close  together,  but  they 
could  not  see  one  another.  They  stood  still,  each 
of  them  mastered  by  some  strange  impulse,  that 
bound  their  tongues.  They  stood  still,  in  the  utter 
darkness  and  silence  of  the  little  stuffed  room,  for 
almost  a minute.  Then  Gallagher  spoke.  He  spoke 
in  a soft  whisper.  The  sound  of  his  voice  was  soft 
and  caressing.  His  lips  were  so  close  to  hers  that  his 
breath  came  moist  to  her  lips.  There  was  a catch  in 
his  voice,  as  if  the  volume  of  sound  were  not  strong 
enough  to  steady  itself  on  the  air. 

“Mary,”  he  said,  “I  want  you  to  come  to  a Court 
of  Inquiry  with  me  to-night.” 

She  made  no  attempt  to  reply.  Neither  did  he 
seem  to  expect  a reply.  It  seemed  that  the  words 
and  their  implication  were  foreign  to  the  purpose  of 
their  meeting  here.  It  seemed  that  the  coursing  of 
their  blood  and  the  confused  beating  of  their  hearts, 
was  in  response  to  some  prearranged  assignation  of 
declared  love. 

But  there  had  never  been  a question  of  amorous 
relations  between  them.  They  had  never  met  in 
privacy  like  this  before.  Their  previous  meetings 
were  more  in  the  nature  of  quarrels.  Mary  had 
always  disputed  with  Gallagher,  particularly  of  late, 
when  she  had  become  violently  opposed  to  him. 
But  now  in  the  darkness,  in  the  solitude,  both  she 

119 


THE  INFORMER 

and  he  were  mastered  by  some  amazing  emotion 
that  was  inexplicable. 

“Dan,”  she  whispered  suddenly,  “you  make  me 
afraid.  Why  are  we  standing  here  in  the  darkness? 
What  do  you  want  with  me?” 

“I  want  you  to  revenge  your  brother,”  said  Galla- 
gher suddenly,  as  if  he  had  obeyed  an  unforeseen  im- 
pulse and  broached  an  unexpected  subject,  with  which 
his  mind  had  hitherto  only  toyed  nervously.  “I  want 
you  to  join  me,  Mary.  I want  you  to  take  your 
brother’s  place  in  the  Organization.  But  a greater 
place  than  he  held.  No.  It’s  not  your  brother’s 
place  I want  you  to  take  but  . . .” 

“Dan,  what  are  you  talking  about?”  she  panted  in 
a terrified  voice. 

There  was  a pause  during  which  Gallagher  imper- 
ceptibly moved  his  face  closer  to  hers.  Their  lips 
met.  They  kissed  gently.  Then  she  drew  back 
suddenly,  shivering  violently.  She  wanted  to  rush 
away  and  to  shout,  but  the  fascination  of  his  voice 
was  upon  her.  His  voice  and  the  glamour  of  his  face. 
His  face  and  the  romance  of  his  life.  She  was  bound 
suddenly  by  it.  Suddenly  too,  it  became  apparent 
to  her  why  she  had  been  eager  to  convert  him.  It 
had  been  in  order  to  meet  him,  with  a plausible 
excuse. 

And  she  was  almost  engaged  to  Joseph  Augustine 
Short,  who  was  a “gentleman,”  who  would  place  her 
in  a respectable  sphere  of  life,  who  would  free  her 

120 


THE  INFORMER 

for  ever  from  the  hated  associations  of  her  slum  life 
with  its  squalor,  its  revolutionary  crises,  its  damn- 
able insecurity,  its  soul-devouring  monotony. 

Mother  of  Mercy!  Was  she  in  love  with  Galla- 
gher? Was  she  going  to  be  drawn  into  the  web  of 
his  conspiracies  by  the  deadly  fascination  of  his  face 
and  of  his  voice,  by  the  romance  of  his  life? 

“Mary,”  he  murmured  at  last,  “you  are  the  re- 
mainder of  me.  The  two  of  us  together  would  make 
a complete  whole.  There  would  be  nothing  else 
wanting  to  the  two  of  us,  no  unfulfilled  . . . er 
. . . well  . . . it’s  not  that  either.  I have  not 
fully  worked  out  that  part  of  the  theory.  I have  ap- 
proached it  from  another  point  of  view.” 

“What  is  it,  Dan?”  She  drew  away  her  face 
farther  and  loosened  one  hand.  He  was  wrapped  in 
dreams  now  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  stop  her. 
In  fact  he  let  her  go  altogether  suddenly  and  sat  on 
the  table,  simply  holding  her  right  hand  in  his. 
“What  do  you  want  with  me?”  she  said  again. 

“I  want  you  to  join  me,”  he  muttered  almost  in- 
audibly,  wrapped  in  his  thoughts. 

“Dan,  I don’t  understand,”  she  gasped,  afraid  of 
his  voice. 

“How?  How?”  he  muttered.  “Why  don’t  you 
understand?  I want  you  to  join  me.” 

“Do  you  mean  ...  to  ...  to  ...  to  marry 
you?” 

“Oh  rot,”  he  cried  irritably,  waking  from  his  half- 
121 


THE  INFORMER 

reverie  and  turning  towards  her.  “These  ridicul- 
ulous  conventions  don’t  enter  my  consciousness. 
Not  only  have  I no  respect  for  them,  but  they  don’t 
enter  my  consciousness.  You  understand  the  sig- 
nificance of  that.  My  personality  is  entirely  in 
keeping  with  my  mission  in  life.  For  me  all  these 
words  attain  their  true  values.  Marriage,  for  in- 
stance, is  truly  a capitalist  word  meaning  an  arrange- 
ment for  the  protection  of  property  so  that  legiti- 
mate sons  could  inherit  it.  So  I don’t  have  to  argue 
with  it  in  my  own  mind  in  order  to  rid  myself  of  a 
belief  in  it.  Most  men  have  to  do  that.  I am  a 
hundred  years  before  my  time.  I want  to  destroy 
the  idea  of  property.  It  is  my  mission.  I don’t 
want  to  leave  property  to  my  children.  I don’t 
want  children.  They  are  nothing  to  me.  The  per- 
petuation of  my  life  is  in  my  work,  in  men’s  thoughts, 
in  the  fulfillment  of  my  mission.  That’s  why  I 
want  you  to  join  me,  because  I feel  something,  an 
affinity  maybe — that’s  a wrong  word  though — be- 
tween you  and  myself.  I am  sure  there  is  a natural 
relationship,  chemical  maybe,  between  the  two  of  us. 
We  are  two  parts  of  one  whole.  I am  sure  of  that. 
No,  damn  it  all.  What  a ridiculous  idea!  I don’t 
want  you  to  join  me  for  the  purpose  of  cohabitation. 
I have  no  time  to  make  sentiment  a main  impulse 
of  my  desire  to  live.  Neither  have  you.  I am  cer- 
tain of  it.  You  are  governed  by  other  impulses. 

122 


I 


THE  INFORMER 

Maybe  you  don’t  know  it.  Probably  you  are  afraid 
to  analyse  yourself.  But  I know  it.  I don’t  know 
it.  I feel  it.  ‘Know’  is  not  a proper  word.  It’s 
out  of  use.  ‘Feel’  is  better.  It  is  an  outcome  of  the 
new  consciousness  that  I am  discovering.  But  I 
haven’t  worked  that  out  fully  yet.  It’s  only  em- 
bryonic.” 

He  paused.  She  started  when  he  stopped.  She 
had  not  been  listening  to  what  he  had  been  saying. 
She  had  been  arguing  with  herself.  She  had  not 
succeeded  in  settling  with  her  conscience  what  she 
had  been  discussing  when  he  stopped.  She  bit  her 
lip  and  started.  She  was  blushing. 

“Tell  me,  Dan,”  she  whispered,  “do  you  believe  in 
anything?  Do  you  even  believe  in  Communism? 
Do  you  feel  pity  for  the  working  class?” 

Gallagher  uttered  an  exclamation  of  contempt  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  panted  as  he  spoke, 
such  was  the  rapidity  of  his  words,  in  an  effort  to 
keep  pace  with  the  rapidity  of  his  tempestuous 
thoughts. 

“No,”  he  said,  “I  believe  in  nothing  fundamen- 
tally. And  I don’t  feel  pity.  Nothing  fundamental 
that  has  consciousness  capable  of  being  understood 
by  a human  being  exists,  so  I don’t  believe  in  any- 
thing, since  an  intelligent  person  can  only  believe  in 
something  that  is  fundamental.  If  I could  believe  in 
something  fundamental,  then  the  whole  superstruc- 

123 


THE  INFORMER 

ture  of  life  would  be  capable  of  being  comprehended 
by  me.  Life  would  resolve  itself  into  a period  of 
intense  contemplation.  Action  would  be  impossible. 
There  would  be  no  inducement  for  action.  There 
would  be  some  definite  measurement  for  explaining 
everything.  Men  seek  only  that  which  offers  no  ex- 
planation of  itself.  But  wait  a minute.  I haven’t 
worked  out  that  fully  yet.  It’s  only  in  the  theoret- 
ical stage  yet.  I have  no  time. 

“But  you  spoke  of  pity.  Pity?  Pity  is  a ridic- 
ulous sensation  for  a man  of  my  nature.  We  are 
incapable  of  it.  A revolutionary  is  incapable  of  feel- 
ing pity.  Listen.  The  philosophy  of  a revolution- 
ary is  this.  Civilization  is  a process  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  human  species.  I am  an  atom  of  the 
human  species,  groping  in  advance,  impelled  by  a 
force  over  which  neither  I nor  the  human  species 
have  any  control.  I am  impelled  by  the  Universal 
Law  to  thrust  forward  the  human  species  from  one 
phase  of  its  development  to  another.  I am  at  war 
with  the  remainder  of  the  species.  I am  a Christ 
beating  them  with  rods.  I have  no  mercy.  I have 
no  pity.  I have  no  beliefs.  I am  not  master  of 
myself.  I am  an  automaton.  I am  a revolutionary. 
And  there  is  no  reward  for  me  but  the  satisfaction 
of  one  lust,  the  lust  for  the  achievement  of  my  mis- 
sion, for  power  maybe,  but  I haven’t  worked  out 
that  yet.  I am  not  certain  that  the  lust  for  power 
is  a true  impulse,  a true  . . . but  listen.  That  can 

124 


THE  INFORMER 

come  later.  Can  you  give  me  an  answer  now? 
Will  you  join  me?” 

“No  ...  no,  Dan.  Stop.  Listen.”  She  gasped, 
holding  him  back.  “Not  now.  Later  on  I’ll  tell 
you.  On  a night  like  this,  with  death  in  the  house, 
how  can  you  talk  of  . . . ?” 

“Why?”  he  uttered  fiercely.  “What  night  would 
be  better  suited  for  you  to  join  me?  Don’t  you 
want  to  avenge  your  brother’s  death?  Don’t  you 
want  . . .” 

“Dan,  Dan,”  she  gasped,  struggling  away  as  he 
attempted  to  seize  her  in  his  arms,  “don’t  touch  me 
or  I’ll  scream.  I’m  so  excited.” 

There  was  a pause.  Their  breathing  was  loud  in 
the  silence.  A noise  came  from  the  kitchen. 

“That’s  mother  going  to  bed,  Dan,”  said  Mary 
hurriedly.  “You  must  go,  Dan.” 

“Will  you  come  to  the  Court  of  Inquiry  to-night?” 

“Dan,  I’d  rather ” 

“You  must  come,  Mary.  You  must.  You ” 

“All  right,  Dan,  I’ll  come.” 

“Good.  I’ll  come  for  you.  Be  ready  at  one 
o’clock.” 

“All  right,  I’ll  be  ready.” 

“Be  waiting  in  the  parlour  here.  I’ll  knock  on 
the  window.” 

“All  right,  Dan.  Go  now  immediately.  I’m  com- 
ing, mother.  Good  night.” 

He  bent  hurriedly  and  kissed  her  lips.  Then  he 
125 


THE  INFORMER 

stumbled  from  the  room.  She  waited  until  the  hall 
door  closed  behind  him.  Then  she  shuddered  as  the 
barmaid  had  done. 

Gallagher  walked  away  northwards  furiously,  with 
glittering  eyes,  thinking. 


126 


CHAPTER  VIII 


WALKING  OUT  FROM  THE  PUBLIC-HOUSE  INTO 
the  street,  Gypo  felt  as  if  he  had  leapt 
suddenly  into  an  arena,  where  he  was  to 
perform  astounding  feats,  while  an  amazed  audience, 
with  two  million  eyes,  gazed  silent  and  spell-bound. 
He  thrust  his  head  into  the  air.  He  let  his  arms 
hang  limply  from  his  shoulders  in  front  of  his  body. 
He  took  two  staggering  steps  forward  and  uttered 
a long-drawn-out  yell. 

It  was  that  peculiar  yell  that  mountaineers  will 
utter  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  when  the  fair  is  over  in 
the  district  town  and  night  is  falling,  as  they  issue 
from  the  public-houses,  bareheaded  and  wild-eyed, 
dragging  their  snorting  and  shivering  mares  after 
them  by  the  halter. 

Gypo’s  yell  was  just  such  a one.  It  was  like  a 
challenge  to  mortal  combat  issued  to  all  and  sundry. 
He  felt  beside  himself  with  strength.  He  was  free 
again.  Had  not  Gallagher  given  him  his  word  that 
everything  would  be  all  right?  Would  he  not  be 
taken  back  again  into  the  Organization?  Had  he 
not  thrown  suspicion  on  to  the  Rat  Mulligan?  He 
was  free  again.  Ye-a-a-aw! 

He  staggered  to  the  kerbstone  and  yelled,  letting 
127 


THE  INFORMER 

his  body  go  completely  limp  with  ecstasy.  Then, 
breathing  heavily  through  his  nostrils,  he  stood  erect 
and  looked  about  him  to  see  what  effect  his  yell  had 
produced.  There  was  a small  crowd  of  people  near 
by.  They  had  just  come  out  of  Ryan’s  public-house 
and  from  Shaughnessy’s,  another  public-house  ten 
yards  away  at  the  corner  of  a lane.  The  corner  was 
brilliant  with  light,  from  the  public-houses,  from  a 
fried-fish  and  potato  shop,  and  from  a drapery  shop 
where  the  lights  were  kept  on  all  night  by  the  owner, 
with  the  idea  that  the  light  might  terrify  gunmen 
and  housebreakers. 

Gypo  stood  out  in  the  blaze  of  light,  on  the  kerb- 
stone, with  the  beads  of  rainwater  on  his  white 
woollen  muffler  reflected  like  dewdrops  in  the  arti- 
ficial light.  The  people  looked  at  him  in  amazement 
and  with  that  intense  satisfaction  which  the  pro- 
letariat of  the  slums  always  derives  from  something 
unexpected  and  extraordinary  happening,  at  no  cost 
to  themselves.  A spectacle  had  presented  itself. 
The  crowd  began  to  swell. 

Gypo  had  not  intended  to  carry  the  affair  any 
further.  In  fact  he  had  not  intended  to  yell  at  all. 
But  when  he  saw  the  crowd  he  became  amused.  He 
pitched  on  a man  who  stood  near,  a tall,  thin,  respect- 
ably dressed  man,  who  had  a sour  expression  on  his 
face. 

“What  are  ye  lookin’  at  me  for?”  cried  Gypo, 
staring  the  fellow  in  the  face  insolently. 

128 


THE  INFORMER 

“I’m  not  lookin’  at  ye,”  snapped  the  man  irritably. 

“Yer  a liar,”  bellowed  Gypo,  “don’t  I see  ye  lookin’ 
at  me?” 

“Well  a cat  can  look  at  a king,”  cried  the  stranger, 
thrusting  out  his  chin  and  spitting  venomously  to 
his  left. 

“What  are  ye  sayin’  about  kings?”  said  Gypo 
angrily. 

“Better  say  nothin’  about  kings  around  here,  me 
lad.  I think  yer  lookin’  for  trouble.  I’ve  got  a 
good  mind  to  give  ye  a wallop  in  the  jaw.” 

“Ye  would,  would  ye?”  cried  the  stranger,  making 
a move  to  take  his  hands  out  of  his  coat  pockets. 

But  he  was  too  late.  Gypo’s  right  hand  swung 
around.  The  man  went  down  like  a bag  of  nails 
dropped  to  an  iron  deck.  Somebody  cried:  “Lord, 
save  us.”  Gypo  stood  over  the  fallen  man  with  his 
chest  heaving.  A policeman  appeared  from  some- 
where in  the  rear.  He  advanced  rapidly,  shouldering 
the  people  and  trying  to  snatch  something  from 
under  his  cape  as  he  made  for  Gypo. 

“Look  out,  look  out,”  cried  an  old  woman,  through 
her  cupped  hands. 

Gypo  looked  on  either  side  hurriedly  and  then  he. 
heard  the  excited  breathing  of  the  policeman  ap- 
proaching from  behind.  He  tried  to  turn  about, 
but  the  policeman  was  upon  him.  The  policeman’s 
hands  closed  about  his  biceps  and  jerked  back  both 
his  arms  to  lock  them  behind  his  back.  The  arms 

129 


THE  INFORMER 


were  half-way  back  before  Gypo  could  mobilize 
his  vast  strength  to  arrest  their  retreat.  There  was 
a loud  snap  of  bones  being  strained  taut  when 
Gypo’s  strength  collided  with  the  policeman’s 
strength  at  the  point  on  Gypo’s  biceps  where  the 
policeman’s  hands  rested. 

Both  men  groaned  loudly.  The  policeman’s  boots 
tore  at  the  wet  pavement,  making  a noise  like  dry 
cloth  being  rent,  as  he  struggled  to  keep  firm. 
Slowly  Gypo  leaned  forward  until  the  policeman’s 
body  was  on  his  back. 

Then  he  thrust  back  his  head  with  a snarl.  His 
poll  collided  with  the  policeman’s  chin.  There  was  a 
dull  thud  and  a snap.  Gypo  uttered  an  oath  and 
thrust  his  head  downwards  towards  his  knees,  hold- 
ing his  thighs  rigid.  Before  the  head  had  reached 
the  knees,  the  policeman  had  hurtled  through  the 
air  with  a scream  of  terror,  right  over  Gypo’s  head. 

He  fell  with  three  separate  soft  sounds  to  the 
street,  with  his  right  side  against  the  concrete  wall  of 
a house.  He  fell  on  his  back.  He  rose  again  in  the 
middle,  resting  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  heels. 
He  brandished  his  left  hand  towards  Gypo  and  at 
the  same  time  he  tried  to  grip  a fleeing  spectator 
with  it.  Then  he  moaned  and  subsided  again. 

“Run,  Gypo,”  said  somebody. 

Gypo  ran  towards  a lane  at  a fast  run.  He  was 
followed  by  a crowd.  Others  gathered  around  the 
fallen  policeman. 


130 


THE  INFORMER 

Gypo  halted  at  the  far  end  of  the  lane,  in  a dark 
corner.  The  crowd  gathered  around  him.  Every- 
body was  panting  with  excitement.  They  all  stared 
down  the  lane  towards  the  blaze  of  light  where  the 
policeman  lay.  They  began  to  jabber. 

“I  can  see  trouble  cornin’,”  said  one.  “The  sojers 
’ll  be  here  shortly.  Then  yer  goin’  to  see  some 
pluggin’.” 

“Gwan,”  said  another  contemptuously.  “There’s 
no  sojers  goin’  to  come  down  here.  Ye  wouldn’t 
get  a sojer  in  the  town  to  dare  come  within  a mile 
of  Titt  Street  on  this  blessed  night,  after  what  hap- 
pened to-day.” 

At  the  mention  of  “what  happened  to-day,”  a man 
cursed,  a woman  crossed  herself  piously  under  her 
shawl,  an  angry  silence  fell. 

Gypo  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  paying 
no  heed  to  the  talk.  With  his  lips  stuck  out,  he  was 
looking  gloomily  down  the  lane  towards  the  blaze 
of  light.  He  was  enjoying  himself  immensely. 

“Hist,  hist!”  somebody  cried.  “Look,  look.” 

Two  policemen  crossed  the  blaze  of  light,  bearing 
their  fallen  comrade  between  them.  A few  women 
and  small  boys  followed  them.  Then  two  more 
policemen  came,  hauling  along  the  man  whom  Gypo 
had  struck.  They  were  dragging  him  uncere- 
moniously, holding  him  by  the  armpits,  with  his 
feet  trailing  along  the  ground  and  his  arms  dangling. 
They  were  probably  under  the  impression  that  it 

131 


THE  INFORMER 

was  he  who  had  felled  their  comrade.  The  man 
made  an  effort  to  wrench  himself  free,  but  they 
tightened  their  hold  on  his  arms.  He  writhed  and 
went  limp  again,  allowing  himself  to  be  dragged 
lifelessly.  A woman,  with  straggling  red  hair  and  a 
child  on  her  back  in  a black  shawl,  danced  in  front 
of  the  policemen,  screaming  and  gesticulating,  de- 
manding the  man’s  release.  Then  the  procession 
passed  out  of  sight  with  a mad  rush  of  feet  and  a 
medley  of  indiscriminate  noises. 

“Let’s  go  back,”  muttered  a young  man  who  had  a 
slight  hump. 

Gypo  grunted  and  hitched  up  his  trousers.  He  put 
his  hand  to  his  head  to  settle  his  hat  jauntily  before 
leading  the  way  back.  But  instead  he  uttered  an 
oath.  His  little  round  torn  hat  was  not  there.  His 
massive  round  skull  stood  bare  under  the  night.  It 
stood  naked,  hummocked  and  gashed  here  and 
there,  like  a badly  shorn  sheep.  He  traversed  the 
skull  with  his  right  palm,  in  little  flurried  rushes, 
as  if  he  had  had  a vague  suspicion  that  the  hat  was 
hiding  somewhere  along  the  expanse  of  skull.  Then 
he  set  out  at  a wild  rush  down  the  lane,  followed  by 
the  crowd,  to  retrieve  the  hat,  as  if  his  life  depended 
on  it.  For  the  first  time,  since  Gallagher  had  given 
his  word,  terror  again  invaded  his  mind.  If  they 
discovered  the  hat  they  might  be  able  to  discover  the 
identity  of  that  ponderous  fellow  who  had  gone  into 
the  police-station.  . . . 


132 


THE  INFORMER 

But  no.  He  rushed  into  the  road  and  brought  up 
with  a slither  of  his  right  foot  on  the  wet  pavement. 
The  hat  was  lying  in  the  gutter  before  his  eyes.  It 
lay  crushed  beside  a flattened  little  cardboard  choco- 
late box  and  an  orange  skin.  It  had  been  trodden  on 
by  a small  bare  foot.  The  impress  of  a wet  heel  was 
on  its  right  side. 

He  grabbed  it  up  hurriedly,  punched  it  into  shape 
and  crammed  it  on  to  his  skull  with  both  hands. 
Then  he  laughed  aloud  and  turned  to  the  people. 

“I  thought  I had  lost  it,”  he  cried  affectionately. 
“I  had  it  this  two  years.” 

The  crowd  gaped  at  the  hat  as  if  it  had  magical 
properties.  Others  who  had  run  up  without  know- 
ing what  had  already  happened  gaped  at  Gypo’s 
humpy  face,  at  his  ruminative  eyes  and  his  eyebrows 
that  were  like  snouts,  at  the  red  fat  backs  of  his 
hands,  as  he  held  them  to  his  throat  tightening  the 
white  woollen  muffler  about  his  neck.  There  were 
agitated  whispers  on  the  outskirts  of  the  ragged 
crowd. 

“He’s  stronger  than  any  bull.” 

“How?  Why?  What  did  he  do?”  from  a dozen 
throats. 

“Wait  till  I tell  ye.  I saw  him  with  me  own  eyes 
send  Scrapper  Moloney  o’  the  B Division  flyin’  over 
his  shoulder  like  a man  divin’  off  the  Bull  Wall.  I 
declare  to  me ” 

“I  know  him  well.  He  used  to  be  a bobby  himself 
133 


THE  INFORMER 

once.  His  name  is  Nolan.  Gypo  Nolan.  Didn’t  ye 
ever  hear  of  him?” 

“Sure;  usen’t  he  be  pals  with  Frankie  McPhillip 
that  was  shot  to-day?” 

“Sure  I was,”  broke  in  Gypo,  overhearing  the  re- 
mark; ‘an’  when  ye  speak  o’  the  dead,  ye  might  add 
Lord  Have  Mercy  on  him.” 

“Hear,  hear,”  cried  several  voices.  “Hit  him  a 
puck  in  the  jaw.  Who  is  he?” 

A noisy  argument  and  a scuffle  arose.  The  culprit 
was  hustled  away,  kicked  and  struck  about  the  face, 
until  he  made  his  escape  by  running  at  full  speed 
up  the  lane.  Then  they  all  crowded  around  Gypo 
again. 

He  stood  head  and  shoulders  above  them,  revelling 
in  the  attention  he  was  attracting.  He  stood  so 
impassively  with  his  arms  folded,  that  he  might  be 
mistaken  for  a great  scowling  statue  at  a distance. 
Then  he  suddenly  raised  his  right  hand  and  made  a 
circular  movement  with  it. 

“Come  on,”  he  cried  wildly.  “I’m  goin’  to  give 
everybody  here  a feed.  Come  on.  Come  on  every 
mother’s  son  in  this  crowd  that’s  hungry.” 

He  waved  his  arm  towards  the  fried-fish  and  chip 
shop  and  headed  off  towards  the  door. 

“Hurrah!” 

“Long  life  to  ye,  me  darlin’  son  of  Erin.” 

“More  power  to  yer  elbow.” 

“Up  the  rebels.” 


134 


THE  INFORMER 

Gypo  strode  in  front  of  the  disreputable  throng  as 
proud  as  a king  leading  his  courtiers.  They  came 
after  him  with  pattering  feet,  panting,  pushing, 
snivelling,  emitting  that  variegated  murmur  of 
sound  that  comes  from  a pack  of  wild  things  in  a 
panic,  coming  from  afar,  unseen,  without  a guiding 
reason.  They  were  the  riff-raff  and  the  jetsam  of  the 
slums,  the  most  degraded  types  of  those  who  dwell  in 
the  crowded  warrens  on  either  bank  of  the  Liffey. 
But  to  Gypo  they  were  an  audience  to  acclaim  his 
words  and  his  deeds. 

“Before  long  ye’ll  see  me  cock  o’  the  walk  around 
here,”  he  thought,  as  he  strode  into  the  shop.  “Me 
an’  Gallagher.  Come  on,  every  man  jack  an’  woman 
too.  Come  on.” 

They  packed  the  little  shop  to  the  door.  There 
was  an  overflow  outside.  It  was  warm  within  after 
the  drizzling  rain  and  the  sharp  wind  outside.  The 
air  within  the  shop  became  almost  immediately  full 
of  the  vapour  of  human  breath.  The  low  murmur  of 
breathing  could  be  heard  distinctly  through  the  hum 
of  whispered  conversation. 

“Hey  there,  towny,”  cried  Gypo  to  the  shopkeeper, 
“chuck  us  a feed  for  all  hands.  I’m  payin’  for  the 
lot.” 

The  shopkeeper  was  an  Italian,  a dark  middle-aged 
fellow  with  plaintive  eyes.  He  looked  at  Gypo 
and  then  at  the  crowd.  Curiosity,  fear,  suspicion  and 
surprise  raced  across  his  face.  Then  he  smiled  and 

135 


THE  INFORMER 

nodded  his  head.  He  said  something  in  a foreign 
language  to  the  girl  who  stood  behind  him  and  then 
he  began  immediately  to  put  steaming  portions  of 
potatoes  and  fish  into  slips  of  old  newspapers  that 
lay  ready  to  hand.  The  girl,  a red-cheeked  young 
woman  with  big  black  eyes,  dressed  in  white,  busied 
herself,  pushing  to  and  fro  on  a long  arrangement 
like  a sink,  more  fish  and  potatoes  that  were  being 
fried.  A crackling  noise  came  from  this  frying.  A 
hot,  sweet  and  acrid  smell  permeated  the  whole  room. 

The  starved  wastrels  revelled  in  that  smell.  They 
looked  towards  the  frying  food  with  eager  mouths 
and  glistening  eyes.  Their  nostrils  smelt  its  heat  and 
its  savour  greedily.  Their  faces  were  all  fierce  and 
emaciated.  Their  bodies  were  unkempt,  crooked, 
weazened.  But  just  then,  the  joy  of  an  unexpected 
banquet  had  filled  even  their  haggard  and  stupefied 
souls  with  a pleasure  that  made  them  laugh  and 
chatter  irresponsibly  like  children.  The  sorrows  and 
the  miseries  of  life  were  forgotten  in  that  moment 
of  common  rejoicing.  And  perhaps  that  joyous 
mumble  of  chattering  voices,  rising  through  the  steam 
in  that  slum  eating-house,  was  a beautiful  hymn  of 
praise  to  the  spirit  of  life. 

And  Gypo  stood  among  them  like  some  primeval 
monster  just  risen  from  the  slime  in  which  all  things 
had  their  origin. 

While  around  him  crowded  the  others,  like  insects 
upon  which  he  had  been  destined  to  fatten. 

136 


THE  INFORMER 

As  he  looked  about  him,  with  the  slow,  languorous 
eye  movement  of  a resting  bull,  he  felt  the  exaltation 
and  conceit  of  a conqueror  at  the  hour  of  victory. 
An  intelligent  being,  gifted  with  such  strength  and 
the  power  to  analyse  his  sensations,  would  have 
said:  “This  is  the  greatest  moment  of  my  life.” 
But  Gypo  did  not  think.  There  was  nothing  about 
him  in  relation  to  which  he  could  think.  A queen 
will  not  dream  of  flaunting  her  beauty  and  her 
raiment  at  a boors’  banquet.  But  she  will,  on  a 
public  holiday,  bow  to  their  clamorous  cheers.  So 
with  Gypo. 

The  cumbersome  mechanism  of  his  mind  had  been 
put  in  motion  that  evening  by  the  necessity  for  form- 
ing a plan  after  leaving  the  police-station.  The 
unaccustomed  strain  had  unmoored  it.  It  floundered 
about  until  Gallagher’s  promise  perched  it  on  a 
foolish  eminence  whence  it  regarded  the  rest  of 
humanity  with  contempt.  It  sprawled  its  ponderous 
foundations  on  that  crazy  eminence  as  arrogantly  as 
if  it  were  about  to  rest  there  for  eternity. 

He  rolled  his  eyes  about  at  the  heads  that  were 
standing  thickly  around  him,  some  on  a level  with 
his  biceps,  some  on  a level  with  his  waist,  while  here 
and  there  a tall  man  like  himself,  stood  with  a red, 
lean,  knotted  neck  strained  forward,  with  throbbing 
throat,  towards  the  food  counter. 

“Biga  lot  o’  people,”  murmured  the  Italian  sud- 
denly, making  a polite  gesture  with  his  hands  to 

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THE  INFORMER 

indicate  the  number  of  people  present  and  the  nature 
of  his  suspicions. 

“That’s  all  right,”  muttered  Gypo.  “Count  ’em  as 
ye  hand  out  the  grub.  I’ll  pay.  Don’t  you  fret 
yersel’.  Keep  back  there.” 

He  had  been  standing  with  his  palms  against  the 
edge  of  the  marble-topped  counter.  Now,  in  order 
to  put  his  hand  into  his  right  trousers  pocket,  he  had 
to  pick  up  a small-sized  man  and  crush  him  in  be- 
tween two  women,  who  leaned  away  behind  their 
shawls.  Then  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
and  fingered  the  wad  of  Treasury  notes.  The  very 
touch  of  them  sent  a wave  of  remembrance  through 
his  body.  A slight  tremor  ran  up,  almost  tangibly 
like  a breath  of  cold  wind  in  a hot  place,  up  the 
extent  of  his  body  until  it  entered  his  brain.  The 
remembrance  of  the  origin  of  that  wad  of  notes 
staggered  him  momentarily.  He  remembered  the 
fat  white  hand,  surmounted  by  a carefully  brushed 
blue  sleeve,  that  had  handed  him  the  wad  over  a 
desk,  saying  ever  so  icily:  “You’ll  find  twenty 
pounds  there.  Go.” 

But  after  the  first  shock  he  curled  his  thick  upper 
lip  slightly  and  licked  it  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 
The  movement  of  his  mouth  had  the  appearance  of  a 
grin.  The  girl  who  happened  to  glance  at  him  just 
then,  found  his  gaze  centred  on  her.  She  dropped 
the  fish  slice  into  the  pan  with  some  sort  of  an 
exclamation  in  a foreign  language.  But  Gypo, 

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THE  INFORMER 

though  he  was  looking  at  her,  did  not  see  her.  He 
was  busy  with  his  clumsy  thick  fingers,  separating  a 
single  note  from  the  roll  without  taking  the  roll 
from  his  pocket.  At  last  he  succeeded  in  doing  so. 
He  grunted  and  pulled  out  a single  Treasury  note. 

He  held  it  up. 

“Here  ye  are,”  he  cried.  “This’ll  pay  for  the  lot. 
Hand  out  the  grub.” 

The  Italian  smiled  immediately  and  began  to  serve 
the  packages  into  the  eager  hands  that  reached  out 
for  them.  He  counted  out  loud  as  he  did  so:  “One 
two,  three,  four  . . .” 

An  uproar  commenced  immediately.  People 
crowded  in  from  the  door  struggling  to  get  served. 
Those  who  had  been  served  struggled  to  get  out 
into  the  street,  with  their  food  in  steaming,  dripping, 
paper  packages  in  their  hands.  Altercations  arose. 
The  shop  was  full  of  sound.  There  were  catcalls, 
whistling,  cursing  and  laughing.  Then  a big  docker 
brought  the  uproar  to  a climax  by  smashing  his  big 
boot  through  the  wooden  bottom  of  the  counter, 
uttering  a drunken  yell  as  he  did  so.  Then  he 
sprawled  over  the  counter,  laughing  foolishly  and 
reaching  out  with  his  two  hands  towards  the  girl 
who  shrank  away  terrified.  The  Italian  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  terror.  Gypo  turned  towards  the 
docker,  lifted  him  up  by  the  back  and  shouted: 

“Keep  quiet.” 

The  two  words  re-echoed  through  the  shop,  like 
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THE  INFORMER 

two  rocks  rolled  down  from  opposite  precipices  and 
meeting  in  a glen,  with  two  separate  sounds,  a heavy- 
thick  sound  as  they  collide,  a loud  rasping  sound 
as  their  splintered  fragments  fly  clashing  into  the 
air. 

The  words  had  scarcely  passed  out  the  door  into 
the  night  before  a silence  fell.  Everybody  stood 
still.  One  man  stopped  in  the  act  of  sucking  a fish- 
bone between  his  lips. 

“Now  carry  on,”  continued  Gypo,  “but  don’t  kick 
up  a row  like  a lot  o’  cannibals.  Don’t  disgrace  yer 
country.  A man  ud  think  ye  didn’t  see  a bite  for  a 
year.” 

Then  he  himself  turned  towards  the  counter  and 
asked  the  Italian  how  many  meals  had  been  served. 
Twenty-four  meals  had  been  served.  He  threw  the 
pound  note  on  the  counter. 

“Take  out  o’  that  for  three  rounds  for  mesel’,”  he 
said. 

Then  he  pushed  back  his  hat,  drew  a paper  full  of 
food  towards  him  and  began  to  eat.  Without  speak- 
ing, the  Italian  held  the  Treasury  note  between  him 
and  the  electric  light  and  peered  at  each  side  of  it 
several  times.  Then  he  nodded  his  head  and  opened 
his  till. 

Mulholland  had  also  strained  his  neck  to  peer  at 
the  Treasury  note.  He  had  been  standing  in  the 
angle  of  the  doorway  all  the  time,  silent  and  immov- 
able. As  soon  as  he  saw  the  pound  note,  he  drew 

140 


THE  INFORMER 

out  into  the  open  and  craned  over  the  heads  of  the 
people  to  look  at  it.  A neighbour  noticed  him,  a 
ragged  little  fellow,  who  mistook  the  cause  of  Mul- 
holland’s  curiosity. 

“Didn’t  ye  get  any  grub?”  said  the  little  man  to 
Mulholland.  It’s  yer  own  fault  if  ye  didn’t.  Come 
on,  man.  Don’t  stand  there  hungry.  Go  on  up  to 
the  counter.” 

He  caught  Mulholland  by  the  arm  and  tried  to 
push  him  towards  the  counter. 

“Leave  me  alone,”  hissed  Mulholland.  “I  don’t 
want  any  grub.  Let  go.” 

“Go  on  up,”  pursued  the  little  fellow;  “go  on,  man. 
Didn’t  ye  hear  him  say  he  was  standin’  a round  for 
everybody.  Go  on  up.” 

“Let  go,  I tell  ye.  Let  go.  I don’t  want  it,  I say.” 

But  it  was  no  use  for  Mulholland  to  refuse.  The 
more  he  refused  the  more  the  little  fellow  was  deter- 
mined that  he  should  be  fed.  Others  joined  in, 
eager  for  some  amazing  reason  or  other  that  Mul- 
holland should  be  fed.  It  seemed  that  they  sus- 
pected something  indecent  and  improper  in  Mul- 
holland’s  refusal  to  eat. 

“Call  out,”  cried  somebody,  “call  out  for  another 
ration.  Bring  it  down  to  him.” 

“Yes,  why  shouldn’t  he  have  his  share  as  well  as 
the  next?” 

“Let  me  alone,”  cried  Mulholland  in  a rage;  “let 
me  alone,  or  I’ll  smash  yer  skull  for  ye.” 

141 


THE  INFORMER 

That  put  a different  aspect  on  the  question. 
There  were  a dozen  angry  oaths. 

“So  that’s  what’s  the  matter  with  ye.  Yer  lookin’ 
for  fight,  eh?” 

“Stand  back  an’  let  me  at  him,”  cried  somebody 
in  the  rear,  pressing  forward. 

Mulholland  tried  to  rush  for  the  door,  but  they 
held  on  to  him. 

“What  the  hell  is  the  matter  now?”  thundered 
Gypo,  striding  over. 

Immediately  the  scuffling  stopped.  Gypo  came 
face  to  face  with  Mulholland.  He  saw  Mulholland’s 
little  eyes,  gleaming  and  flashing  like  the  eyes  of  a 
cat  beset  by  dogs.  There  was  a tense  moment  during 
which  Gypo  struggled  with  obscure  suspicions. 
But  suddenly  the  expression  on  Mulholland’s  face 
changed  into  an  expression  of  cunning' intimacy. 
His  face  instead  of  being  fierce  and  resentful  sud- 
denly seemed  to  say:  “We  are  members  of  the 
Revolutionary  Organization,  you  and  I.  Get  this 
rabble  out  of  my  way.”  Gypo  immediately  remem- 
bered Gallagher’s  promise.  He  looked  at  Mulhol- 
land with  a good-natured  condescension.  “Ha,”  he 
thought,  “this  fellah’ll  be  useful.” 

“Let  him  alone,”  he  cried  arrogantly;  “he’s  a friend 
o’  mine.  How  are  ye  gettin’  on,  Bartly?” 

Then  he  continued  carelessly,  to  impress  the  crowd 
with  his  own  importance  and  his  intimacy  with  the 
affairs  of  the  Revolutionary  Organization,  which  was 

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THE  INFORMER 

the  most  impressive  thing  in  the  lives  of  those  about 
him. 

“Hear  anythin’  yet  about  what  I was  tellin’  ye? 
I mean  about  the  fellah  that  informed  on  Frankie 
McPhillip?” 

Mulholland  was  amazed  for  a moment.  What 
audacity!  But  it  was  not  audacity.  Gypo  had 
completely  forgotten  the  ponderous  fellow  in  the  little 
tattered  round  hat  who  had  gone  into  the  police- 
station.  His  sudden  conceit  had  completely  swal- 
lowed that  ponderous  fellow. 

“Fie  must  be  drunk,”  thought  Mulholland.  He 
said  aloud,  whispering  to  Gypo,  as  he  bent  his  head 
close  and  turned  up  his  face  sideways  in  his  peculiar 
manner,  “I  was  just  passin’  an’  saw  ye.  I just 
thought  I’d  drop  in  an’  tell  ye  I’d  be  there  at  one 
o’clock.  Ye  know  where  I mean?  No,  we  didn’t 
hear  anythin’  yet  about  that.” 

He  winked  his  right  eye.  Gypo  winked  his  right 
eye  and  nodded  solemnly.  Then  Mulholland  walked 
quickly  out  the  door,  evidently  going  off  somewhere 
in  a hurry.  But  he  halted  at  the  corner  of  the  lane, 
distended  his  eyes  and  gritted  his  teeth.  He  rubbed 
his  chin  meditatively,  looking  at  the  ground.  He 
couldn’t  make  it  out,  whatever  it  was,  that  was 
troubling  his  mind. 

Gypo  turned  once  more  to  the  counter  and  con- 
tinued his  meal.  He  ate  as  if  he  were  about  to  travel 
for  days  and  he  were  deliberately  devouring  a store 

143 


THE  INFORMER 

of  food  sufficient  to  last  to  the  end  of  the  journey. 
Behind  him  and  on  either  side  of  him,  they  were 
talking  about  his  strength  and  praising  him,  but 
he  paid  no  heed  to  them.  He  was  immersed  in 
dreams  about  his  future,  now  that  Gallagher  was 
going  to  take  him  back  again  into  the  Organization. 

“Aha!”  cried  an  old  woman,  with  watery  blue  eyes 
and  a wrinkled  white  face,  as  she  shook  her  fist  up- 
wards at  him,  “I  wish  I had  a son  like  ye.  Me  own 
Jimmy,  Lord  Have  Mercy  on  him,  was  killed  in  the 
big  war.  He  was  the  boy  that  could  bate  the  polis! 
Don’t  be  talkin’.  I seen  him  wan  night  an’  it  took 
six  o’  them  to  pull  him  off  a coal  cart  an’  he  holdin’ 
on  to  the  horse’s  reins  all  the  time  with  wan  hand 
while  he  was  fightin’  them  with  th’  other.” 

She  stamped  on  the  floor  and  yelled,  her  eyes 
gleaming  ferociously,  as  if  the  contemplation  of  her 
dead  son’s  fight  gave  her  tangible  pleasure.  Then 
she  walked  towards  the  door,  trailing  her  shawl  and 
her  arms  with  bravado.  The  poor  woman  was 
slightly  insane  as  the  result  of  paralysis. 

A tall,  sour-faced,  lean  man,  with  a red  nose  shaped 
like  a reversed  scimitar,  who  had  just  come  in, 
looked  after  the  old  woman  and  shook  his  head.  He 
mumbled  something  under  his  breath.  The  old  lady 
halted  and  looked  at  him  contemptuously. 

“What  are  ye  sniggerin’  at,”  she  cried,  “you  with  a 
face  like  a plate  o’  burnt  porridge?” 

144 


THE  INFORMER 

There  was  a loud  laugh. 

“Mary  Hynes/’  said  the  hook-nosed  man,  “if  ye 
were  more  careful  of  yer  son’s  upbringin’  an’  of  yer 
own  immortal  soul,  ye  wouldn’t  be  in  the  state  ye 
are  in  now.  It  it  boastin’  of  yer  son’s  lawlessness  ye 
are?  Are  ye  boastin’  of  his  livin’  crimes  an’  he 
already  gone  to  meet  his  God?” 

The  hook-nosed  man  raised  his  right  hand  dra- 
matically to  point  at  the  ceiling  and  he  glared  at  the 
old  woman  with  fierce  and  menacing  sorrow.  But 
his  words  produced  a contrary  effect  to  that  which 
he  expected  on  the  old  woman.  She  looked  at  him 
contemptuously  and  then  curled  her  mouth  up  in 
anger. 

“Yerrah,  d’ye  call  it  a crime  to  bate  a policeman?” 
she  cried  in  amazed  indignation. 

“Certainly  it  is  a crime,”  cried  the  hook-nosed 
man. 

“Damn  an’  blast  it,  what  are  ye  talkin’  about, 
Boxer  Lydon?”  cried  a burly  fellow  coming  up  to 
Lydon  and  staring  him  excitedly  and  angrily  in  the 
face.  “Didn’t  ye  hear  of  what  the  polis  did  to-day  to 
Frankie  McPhillip?  D’ye  call  it  a crime  to  bate  that 
murderin’  lot?  Aye  or  shoot  them  either!” 

“I  don’t  say  they  were  justified  in  what  they  did 
to-day,”  cried  Lydon,  raising  his  voice  to  a querulous 
shout  in  order  to  drown  the  uproar;  “but  neither  will 
I say  that  the  dead  man  was  justified  in  what  he  done. 

145 


THE  INFORMER 

Do  none  o’  ye  think  o’  the  man  McPhillip  killed? 
Wasn’t  he  a fellow-man  like  yersel’?  Wasn’t  he  an 
Irishman  of  the  same  flesh  an’  blood?” 

“Aw!  that’s  nationalism/’  cried  somebody. 
“What’s  an  Irishman  no  more  than  a Turk?  Ye 
belong  to  the  I.  R.  B.,  an’  that’s  where  ye  get  yer 
lingo.  Up  the  workers!” 

The  hook-nosed  man  paused  with  his  hand  raised 
until  the  interrupter  finished.  Then  he  continued 
unmoved: 

“Do  none  o’  ye  think  that  maybe  that  man  left  a 
mother  an’  a ” 

But  he  had  to  stop.  His  voice  was  drowned  in  the 
uproar  and  the  scuffling.  The  old  woman  began  to 
sing  “Kelly  the  boy  from  Killane/’  as  she  strolled  out 
the  door.  Another  man  was  pushing  his  way  in 
through  the  crowd  at  the  door  towards  the  hook- 
nosed man.  This  new-comer  had  been  standing  at 
the  door  for  some  time.  He  was  dressed  from  head 
to  foot  in  a heavy  black  overcoat.  He  was  better 
dressed  than  everybody  present,  but  he  looked  as  pale 
and  haggard  as  the  others.  His  face  continually 
twitched  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  looked  at 
the  hook-nosed  man  fiercely  and  seized  him  ner- 
vously by  the  buttonhole.  The  hook-nosed  man 
edged  away. 

“For  God’s  sake,  let  up  on  that  rubbish,”  cried  the 
new-comer,  stammering  at  each  word.  His  upper 
lip  was  contorting  as  if  he  were  in  a fit. 

146 


THE  INFORMER 

“Let  me  go,”  cried  the  hook-nosed  man.  “I’ll 
have  my  say,  an’  I won’t  be  intimidated  by  any 
Socialist  agitator.  Keep  back  from  me.” 

“I  only  wanted  to  tell  ye,”  shouted  the  other,  “I 
only  wanted  to  tell  ye  ...  I say  ...  I say  . . .” 

Then  nothing  could  be  distinguished  above  the  up- 
roar. Everybody  present  took  part  in  the  argument. 
The  ragged  fellows  who  had  come  in  with  Gypo, 
curiously  enough,  took  no  interest  in  the  argument. 
Those  of  them  that  had  not  already  disappeared 
as  soon  as  they  got  their  food,  now  took  their  leave 
when  the  argument  began.  There  was  even  a look  of 
fear  in  their  faces  as  they  slunk  away,  as  if  this 
demonstration  of  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  world 
terrified  them,  who  had  no  interest  in  anything,  since 
their  souls  were  numbed  by  the  hopelessness  of 
despair.  Only  a few  of  the  most  wretched  remained, 
crouching  against  the  counter,  in  the  comforting 
shadow  of  Gypo’s  immensity.  They  remained  be- 
cause the  presence  of  his  powerful  personality 
comforted  them  and  gave  them  the  imaginary  feeling 
of  having  something  to  protect  them  from  the  menace 
of  civilized  life. 

Those  that  were  now  taking  part  in  the  argument 
were  of  a better  class.  They  were  workers  of  all 
sorts,  members  of  trade  unions  and  respectable  peo- 
ple. They  had  appeared  somehow,  one  by  one  but 
rapidly,  in  that  mysterious  way  in  which  crowds  of 
people  of  a certain  type  gather  in  the  Titt  Street  dis- 

147 


THE  INFORMER 

trict  and  carry  on  an  argument  with  furious  heat. 

Gypo  suddenly  turned  around  and  looked  at  the 
wrangling  group,  at  the  open  mouths,  the  listening 
ears,  the  distorted  faces,  the  glittering  eyes.  He  lis- 
tened. He  blinked.  Then  he  laughed  softly  within 
himself.  He  felt  a crazy  desire  to  yell  and  fall  on 
them  with  his  fists.  The  mixed  murmur  of  their 
agitated  voices  had  a maddening  effect  on  him.  But 
he  looked  back  at  the  counter.  He  still  had  food 
to  eat.  He  continued  his  meal.  The  argument 
went  on. 

The  man  with  the  long  overcoat  who  had  just 
arrived  held  the  attention  of  the  crowd.  He  was  a 
well-known  man  in  the  district  and  all  over  the  city. 
He  owned  a small  tobacconist  and  newsvendor’s 
shop.  He  was  called  The  Crank  Shanahan  and  in- 
deed he  was  a crank.  He  belonged  to  no  organiza- 
tion, he  went  about  alone,  he  attended  every  political 
meeting  in  the  city  and  he  was  continually,  in  all 
weathers,  agitating  and  preaching  in  a Joud  shrill 
voice  his  own  peculiar  philosophy  of  social  life. 
That  philosophy  was  a mixture  of  all  sorts  of  politi- 
cal creeds,  but  its  main  basis  was  revolt  against 
every  existing  institution,  habit  or  belief.  He  was 
called  an  anarchist,  but  he  was  not  an  anarchist.  He 
was  just  a fanatic  who  was  dissatisfied  with  life.  At 
night  he  was  given  to  fearfully  morbid  thoughts  that 
caused  him  to  lock  and  bar  himself  in  his  room  and 
sleep  with  the  blankets  right  over  his  head.  He  was 

148 


THE  INFORMER 

even  supposed  to  put  cotton-wool  into  his  ears  at 
night  lest  he  might  hear  a sound.  And  once  the 
policeman  on  duty  found  him  wandering  around  the 
street  in  which  he  lived,  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, dressed  in  a torn  nightshirt,  trembling  and 
gnashing  his  teeth  with  terror.  He  had  jumped  up 
horrified  by  a nightmare  and  rushed  out  in  that 
state. 

“Listen,”  he  cried.  “I  don’t  agree  with  the  Revo- 
lutionary Organization,  but  the  man  that  killed  Mc- 
Phillip  . . . no  . . . no,  no  ...  I mean  the  man 
. . . can’t  ye  let  me  speak?  . . . I mean  the  farmer 
that  McPhillip  killed,  he  was  an  agent  of  the  capital- 
ist class.  Then  it  follows  logically  that  he  was  an 
enemy  of  the  working  class.  McPhillip  was  an  agent 
of  the  working  class.  He  was  justified  in  killing  the 
man.  That’s  the  matter  treated  logically  and 
brought  to  a logical  conclusion.  Everything  must 
be  approached  logically.  Listen.  Taking  the  ques- 
tion from  a wider  standpoint  we  can  get  a broader 
judgment  that  will  fit  all  cases  of  the  kind  that  may 
arise” — he  raised  his  voice  to  a scream  to  drown  the 
noise  of  a scuffle  at  the  door — “in  the  near  future. 
We  are  at  the  base  of  a world  revolutionary  wave. 
According  as  that  wave  advances  and  gathers 
strength  the  whole  process  of  capitalist  society  will 
crumble  up.  Then  there  will  be  a gradual  increase 
in  the  number  of  these  skirmishes,  as  it  were  on 
the  . . .» 


149 


THE  INFORMER 

His  voice  was  drowned  suddenly  by  a big  man  who 
began  to  swing  his  arms  about  his  head  uttering  a 
fearful  torrent  of  oaths.  He  was  drunk.  Then 
Lydon  shouted: 

“Murder  is  murder,  I say.  Murder  is  always 
murder  and  the  gospel  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
says ” 

“There  must  be  no  mercy,”  yelled  a little  man 
with  a black  moustache,  who  rushed  into  a corner 
where  he  had  room  to  prance  about.  “There  must 
be  no  mercy.  To  hell  with  everybody.  That  right, 
boys?  Wha’?” 

“What  are  ye  talkin’  about?”  cried  Gypo,  sud- 
denly turning  about. 

Silence  fell  immediately.  Everybody  looked  at 
him.  His  face  was  perspiring.  He  rubbed  his 
hands  on  his  chest.  He  curled  up  his  lips.  He  gave 
his  little  hat  a slight  push  towards  the  back  of  his 
head. 

Then  he  was  seized  by  another  fit  of  strange 
humour.  He  yelled  once  more  and  staggered  to- 
wards the  crowd,  with  his  arms  hanging  loose,  pre- 
tending to  be  dead  drunk.  They  fell  away  from  him 
in  amazement.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  looked  about  him. 

“What  ye  talkin’  about?”  he  drawled  ponderously, 
swaying  backwards  and  forwards. 

He  glared  from  face  to  face,  but  each  pair  of  eyes 
was  turned  away  as  he  sought  them.  He  was  de- 

ISO 


THE  INFORMER 

lighted  with  the  terror  he  caused.  Behind  the 
counter  the  Italian,  still  smiling,  had  grasped  a large 
knife  and  stood  perfectly  still.  The  girl  was  crouch- 
ing on  the  floor.  Then  Gypo  broke  into  a loud  laugh, 
stuck  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  strolled 
towards  the  door. 

He  hesitated  for  a moment  outside  the  door. 
Then  he  headed  straight  across  the  road.  They  all 
ran  to  the  door  to  look  after  him.  His  huge  long 
frame,  clad  in  blue  dungarees  that  clung  to  his  thighs, 
shone  in  the  light  of  the  lamps  as  he  crossed  the 
wide  road,  one  foot  advancing  past  the  other  slowly, 
the  trousers  brushing  with  the  sound  of  hay  being 
cut  with  a scythe.  Then  the  figure  left  the  area  of 
light  and  grew  dim  as  he  gained  the  pavement  at 
the  far  side,  and  turned  to  the  left  under  the  shadow 
of  an  abrupt  tall  house.  Then  he  fell  away  into  the 
night. 

Presently  a lean  slouching  figure  crept  across  the 
street  in  pursuit.  He  also  disappeared  under  the 
shadow  of  the  abrupt  house.  Nobody  noticed  him. 
It  was  Mulholland  tracking  Gypo. 


151 


CHAPTER  IX 


Around  the  corner  Gypo  halted.  He  put 
his  hand  against  the  wall  behind  him  and 
stood  motionless,  with  his  head  turned  back, 
listening.  He  had  heard  a step  following  him.  But 
the  steps  halted  also.  He  listened  for  several  seconds 
breathlessly  and  heard  nothing  further.  Then  he 
snorted  and  turned  his  head  slowly  to  his  front. 
He  looked  ahead  into  the  darkness,  dreamily.  He 
stood  perfectly  still. 

Then  his  face  broke  slowly  into  a sort  of  smile  and 
his  eyes  grew  dim.  He  trembled  slightly.  He 
glanced  about  him  sharply  and  furtively  several 
times.  There  was  a strange,  almost  mysterious 
“significance”  in  his  movements,  slight,  sudden,  fur- 
tive movements. 

Then  he  stared  steadily  down  along  the  dark, 
narrow  street  that  stretched  ahead  of  him,  ending  at 
the  far  end  in  a high  wall,  with  a dim  lamp  at  one 
corner  suggesting  that  another  street  branched  off 
it  to  the  left.  He  winked  his  right  eye  at  the  lamp 
and  a roguish  expression  creased  his  face  as  he 
did  so. 

“Why  not,”  he  muttered  aloud.  “Why  shouldn’t 
152 


THE  INFORMER 

I go  an’  have  a bit  o’  fun?  Wha’?  A few  bob  on 
the  women  an’  a few  drinks  to  keep  me  supper 
warm.” 

A wave  of  passion  surged  through  his  body.  He 
was  on  the  point  of  opening  his  mouth  to  utter  a yell, 
but  instead  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers 
pocket  anxiously  and  groped  for  his  wad  of  money. 
He  found  it.  He  sighed  easily. 

“They  might  have  pinched  it,”  he  muttered  with  a 
look  of  gravity  in  his  little  eyes.  “That  mob  around 
there  are  a lot  o’  wasters.  Ye  couldn’t  trust  yer  shirt 
with  ’em  on  a winter’s  night.  They’d  take  the  char- 
ley  from  under  a pope’s  bed.  Terrible  lot  o’ 
criminals  around  lately.” 

Then  his  face  lit  up  with  eagerness  as  his  mind 
swerved  back  again  to  the  contemplation  of  that 
lamp  at  the  far  end  . . . and  where  that  street  led. 
He  swallowed  his  breath  with  a loud  noise  and  set 
out  towards  the  lamp. 

Almost  immediately  a head  peered  around  the 
corner  behind  him.  The  head  watched  until  Gypo 
turned  to  the  left  at  the  far  end  past  the  lamp. 
Then  a man  darted  around  the  corner  and  raced 
down  the  street  in  pursuit.  It  was  Mulholland 
tracking  Gypo. 

When  Gypo  turned  to  the  left  past  the  lamp  he 
came  into  a narrow  street  in  which  there  were  no 
houses.  On  the  right-hand  side  there  was  a high 
wall,  like  a barrack  wall.  It  enclosed  a big  goods 

153 


THE  INFORMER 

yard  belonging  to  a manufactory,  where  mineral 
waters  or  something  of  that  kind  were  made.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  street  there  was  no  wall  at  all. 
The  foundations  of  houses  still  remained.  Here  and 
there,  a doorway,  a chimney  stack,  or  the  brick 
framework  of  a window,  stood  up  in  a ghastly 
fashion.  Beyond  that  there  was  an  open  space  full 
of  refuse,  mounds  of  earth,  bricks,  pots,  old  clothes. 
The  street  itself  was  a network  of  puddles.  In  order 
to  avoid  wetting  himself  to  the  knees,  Gypo  had  to 
walk  along  the  sloping  bank  of  clay  where  the  houses 
had  crumbled. 

It  was  a dreary  sight.  It  almost  shouted  its  ex- 
periences, and  if  it  had  shouted,  it  would  have  talked 
in  that  endless,  loud,  babbling  scream  in  which 
maniacs  and  demented  creatures  utter  their  words. 
It  was  alive  in  that  peculiar  way  in  which  ruins  are 
alive  at  night,  when  the  earth  is  covered  with  dark- 
ness and  the  living  sleep. 

But  Gypo  was  not  sensitive.  For  him,  the  street, 
with  its  dirt  and  its  squalor,  was  a savage  sauce  to 
whet  his  appetite  for  the  riotous  feast  of  . . . He 
strode  rapidly.  He  jumped  from  mound  to  mound, 
now  slipping  with  a curse,  now  catching  a loose 
brick  in  some  piece  of  wall  to  steady  himself.  Now 
and  again  he  heard  a “hist”  from  the  opposite  wall 
of  the  street,  where  some  woman,  old  and  decrepit, 
sought  the  darkness  so  that  her  ravaged  figure  might 
escape  the  drunken  eyes  of  some  passionate  fellow 

154 


THE  INFORMER 

seeking  a fool’s  pleasure.  These  noises,  croaks  ut- 
tered by  damned  souls,  sounds  so  tremendously 
horrid  to  the  innocent  mind,  made  no  impression  on 
Gypo.  To  him  they  were  merely  noises,  expressions 
of  everyday  life. 

Once  he  recognized  one  of  the  women  who  took  a 
pace  forward  from  her  position  and  put  a wrinkled 
hand  to  her  brow  to  look  at  him. 

“Ho!  Blast  yer  sowl,  Maggie  Casey,”  he  mut- 
tered, “aren’t  ye  dead  yet?” 

He  chuckled  with  laughter  as  he  heard  her  blas- 
phemous rejoinder. 

As  he  approached  the  far  end  of  the  street  the 
silence  lessened.  He  heard  whisperings  and  mur- 
murs, snatches  of  distant  song,  sounds  of  footfalls, 
strains  of  music.  These  sounds  acted  on  him  like 
battle-cries.  He  almost  broke  into  a run  as  he  came 
gradually  nearer  to  the  volume  of  sound.  At  last  he 
dashed  under  an  old  archway  and  he  was  in  the  next 
street.  The  medley  of  sound  was  all  about  him. 
On  his  left-hand  side  stretched  the  long,  low  streets 
of  brothels,  entwined  like  webwork  among  the  ruins 
of  what  was  once  a resort  of  the  nobility  of  eigh- 
teenth-century Dublin. 

He  was  in  a narrow  street  of  two-storied  houses, 
low  houses  with  green  Venetian  blinds  on  the  windows 
of  some  of  them,  their  street  doors  opened  wide, 
lights  in  all  the  front,  ground-floor  windows.  But 
the  street  itself  was  in  darkness  on  account  of  the 

155 


THE  INFORMER 

drizzling  rain.  An  odd  woman  flitted  along.  A few 
men  walked  about  uncertainly.  The  street  had  a 
gloomy  deserted  look.  But  from  the  houses  a med- 
ley of  joyous  sound  issued. 

Gypo  looked  on  for  a moment  excitedly.  Then  he 
walked  down  the  street  slowly,  examining  each  house 
as  he  passed.  He  knew  Katie  Fox  was  by  now  at 
Biddy  Burke’s.  He  wanted  to  avoid  Biddy  Burke’s. 
Biddy  Burke’s  house  was  over  on  the  other  side. 
He  didn’t  want  to  go  there  to-night.  It  was  only  a 
poor  place,  used  by  revolutionaries  and  criminals  of 
the  working-class  type.  The  women  there  were  an 
ugly,  ill-dressed,  whisky-drinking  lot.  He  was  well 
known  there.  He  knew  all  the  women.  There  was 
only  Guinness’s  stout  on  sale  and  even  that  was  so 
diluted  and  ghastly  that  it  was  like  drinking  castor 
oil.  The  more  a man  drank  of  it  the  thirstier  he 
became.  A shilling  a drink  for  poison  like  that! 

Yah!  Away  with  Biddy  Burke  and  Katie  Fox 
and  Sligo  Cissie  and  the  rest  of  them!  To-night  he 
wanted  to  go  somewhere  where  he  was  not  known. 
He  wanted  to  go  among  beautiful  women.  Strange, 
beautiful  women  clothed  in  silk!  Mad  women! 
Women  with  dark,  flashing  eyes  and  sharp,  white 
teeth!  Huh!  He  wanted  to  go  mad.  It  was  a mad 
night.  There  was  fire  in  his  blood.  His  hands 
wanted  to  rip  mountains.  He  would  swallow  tank- 
ards of  drink.  He  would  drain  this  vast  reservoir  of 
strength  from  his  body.  He  must  or  he  would  burst. 

156 


THE  INFORMER 

Already  he  felt  a desire  to  beat  his  head  against 
walls. 

For  six  months  he  had  been  walking  about  a beg- 
gar, cut  off  from  pleasure,  subject  to  Katie  Fox’s 
charity.  Phew!  She  was  no  longer  attractive  to 
him,  that  bag  of  bones  who  thought  of  nothing  but 
dope. 

Suddenly,  without  thinking,  breathing  heavily, 
flushed,  excited  like  a man  inhaling  chloroform,  he 
staggered  through  a doorway.  He  stood  in  a long, 
dark  hall.  He  could  hear  laughter  and  drunken  sing- 
ing coming  from  his  right,  a few  yards  down  the  hall, 
from  behind  a door  through  which  a glint  of  light 
came.  He  strode  to  the  door.  He  tried  to  lift  the 
latch  and  walk  in,  but  the  door  was  bolted.  Almost 
instantly  the  sounds  ceased.  He  kicked  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  door  with  his  boot  several  times. 

“Who’s  that?”  came  a woman’s  voice  angrily. 

“Open  the  door  an’  find  out,”  answered  Gypo  in  a 
shout. 

“Wait  a minute,  Betty,”  came  a husky  man’s 
voice;  “lemme  out.” 

There  was  shuffling  and  whispering. 

“Keep  well  behind  it,”  said  somebody  else. 

Then  the  bolt  was  withdrawn.  The  latch  was 
lifted  carefully.  The  door  opened  slowly  about  three 
inches.  Gypo  watched  these  proceedings  nervously 
and  angrily. 

“Come  on,  come  on,”  he  cried  at  last,  “what’s  all 
157 


THE  INFORMER 


this  monkey  trickin’  about?  Why  don’t  ye  open  the 
door  wide  and  take  yer  mug  outa  the  way?” 

The  man  suddenly  slipped  outside  the  door  like  a 
cat.  With  his  back  to  the  door  and  his  right  hand 
bulging  in  his  coat  pocket  he  faced  Gypo.  He  was  a 
stocky,  bulgy  fellow,  with  a criminal  face.  He  had 
rushed  out  with  the  intention  of  giving  Gypo  a 
thrashing  with  the  “blackjack”  that  was  concealed  on 
his  person,  but  when  he  saw  the  kind  of  customer 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal  his  jaw  dropped.  Gypo 
gazed  at  the  fellow  angrily. 

“So  you’re  the  pimp,”  he  gurgled  ferociously. 

He  took  a little  hurried  breath,  shot  out  his  right 
hand  and  seized  the  pimp  by  the  throat.  The  pimp 
gasped.  His  right  hand  dropped  the  “blackjack.” 
He  reached  up  with  his  two  hands  to  grip  the  giant 
hand  that  held  his  throat. 

“Lemme  go,”  he  screamed. 

But  Gypo  contemptuously  hurled  him  away  from 
the  door  and  sent  him  sprawling  along  the  hall  into 
the  darkness.  Then  he  sent  the  door  flying  open 
with  a push  of  his  shoulder  and  strode  blinking  into 
the  room. 

The  room  was  crowded  with  people.  It  was  very 
large.  It  had  a stone  floor  and  a wide,  open  hearth 
where  an  immense  turf  fire  was  blazing  in  a huge 
grate,  with  steaming  kettles  on  either  side,  on  the 
hobs.  There  was  a dresser  loaded  with  shining 
Delftware  of  all  colours.  The  ceiling  was  high  and 

158 


THE  INFORMER 

white-washed.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pictures 
of  women,  in  amorous  postures  and  in  the  varying 
degrees  of  nakedness  that  might  be  expected  to 
arouse  libidinous  desires  in  the  minds  of  all  types  of 
men.  Everything  in  the  room  was  spotlessly  clean, 
but  the  air  was  warm  and  heavy,  due  to  the  rather 
intense  heat  of  the  fire  and  the  combined  odour  of 
perfume  and  of  alcohol. 

This  heavy,  languorous  odour  exalted  Gypo.  He 
rolled  his  eyes  round  the  room,  drawing  in  a deep 
breath  through  his  expanded  nostrils.  Everybody 
was  looking  at  him.  There  were  eight  men  present, 
three  students  from  the  University,  an  artist,  a 
doctor  and  three  young  gentleman  farmers,  up  from 
the  country  “on  a tear.”  They  had  hired  the  brothel 
for  the  night  and  ordered  the  proprietress  to  admit 
nobody;  but  they  did  not  take  umbrage  at  Gypo’s 
appearance.  They  were  just  at  that  moment  in  the 
delicious  stage  of  intoxication  when  the  most  strange 
incidents  become  normal  and  welcome,  to  minds  that 
are  cloyed  with  alcohol  fumes  and  the  contemplation 
of  bodily  pleasures.  The  scuffle  outside  the  door 
and  the  manner  of  Gypo’s  entrance  made  no  impres- 
sion on  them.  His  appearance,  huge,  towering,  in  a 
suit  of  dungarees,  with  his  little  round  hat  perched 
on  his  massive  skull,  intrigued  them  with  a feeling 
that  this  was  some  new  kind  of  pleasure  provided 
for  their  entertainment.  They  looked  at  him,  half 
laughing,  half  serious,  with  that  dim  and  distant  look 

159 


THE  INFORMER 

in  their  eyes  that  comes  with  the  initial  stages  of 
drunkenness. 

The  women,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  at  Gypo 
with  disfavour.  There  were  ten  of  them  present. 
Some  of  them  were  almost  nude  and  in  various  stages 
of  intoxication,  sitting  on  the  men’s  knees,  with 
glasses  in  their  hands  and  cigarettes  in  their  mouths. 
Others  sat  solemnly  on  their  chairs  dressed  for  the 
street,  as  if  they  had  just  dropped  in  on  their  way 
somewhere.  Their  hard  faces  set  in  a scowl  when 
they  saw  Gypo.  He  was  dressed  like  a workman. 
Therefore  he  had  no  money.  Therefore  they  scowled 
at  him.  This  was  an  “upper-class”  brothel.  All  the 
women  here  were  “ladies.”  Their  “class”  instincts 
were  aroused  by  his  wretched  clothes  and  his  un- 
couth features. 

One  woman  alone  took  no  notice  of  him  whatso- 
ever. She  sat  in  a corner,  reading  a newspaper,  with 
her  legs  crossed,  a cigarette  between  her  lips,  a 
fashionable  short  fur  coat  wrapped  around  her. 
Gypo’s  eyes  wandered  around  the  room  until  they 
rested  on  her.  There  they  remained. 

“What  d’ye  want?”,  cried  a harsh  voice  behind 
him. 

Gypo  turned.  The  proprietress  of  the  brothel  was 
standing  beside  the  door.  Her  left  hand  was  on  her 
breast  fingering  a little  silver  crucifix  that  was  sus- 
pended from  her  neck  by  a black  velvet  cord.  Her 
right  hand  rested  on  the  door,  a short,  white,  fat 

160 


THE  INFORMER 

hand,  as  if  she  were  waiting  until  Gypo  went  out  so 
as  to  shut  the  door  again.  She  was  a small,  fat 
woman  of  middle  age,  with  a huge  head  of  devilishly 
black  hair,  arranged  in  towering  fashion,  with  a 
glittering  black  comb  stuck  in  the  rear  of  the  pile. 
Her  hair  was  the  la't  remains  of  her  beauty.  The 
remainder  of  her  hiad  had  been  coarsened  by  the 
odious  nature  of  her  pursuits.  Her  face  was 
blotched,  wrinkled  and  pale.  Her  eyes  were  yellow, 
hard,  sunken  and  bloodshot.  Her  mouth  was  drawn 
together  as  if  some  clumsy  fellow  had  tried  to  stitch 
the  lips  and  made  a bad  job  of  it.  She  was 
dressed  in  a blue  skirt  and  a white  blouse.  The 
blouse  sleeves  were  rolled  almost  up  to  her  shoulders 
showing  a tremendously  fat  pair  of  arms.  They 
called  her  Aunt  Betty  and  she  was  known  all  over 
the  district  for  her  cunning,  her  meanness  and  the 
peculiar  habit  she  had,  perhaps  in  the  middle  of  a 
conversation,  of  suddenly  uttering  a coarse  expres- 
sion, grasping  her  breasts  and  staring  about  her  wild- 
eyed, as  if  she  were  afraid  of  some  dread  spectre 
being  in  pursuit  of  her. 

Gypo  did  not  know  her,  because  her  place  was 
fashionable,  frequented  only  by  well-to-do  people, 
business  men,  army  officers  and  students  who  had 
money  to  spend.  Gypo  only  knew  the  cheaper 
brothels,  places  that  were  used  as  “friendly  houses” 
by  revolutionaries,  criminals  and  working  men.  On 
any  other  night  he  would  never  think  of  entering  the 

161 


THE  INFORMER 


place,  no  more  than  a man  in  overalls  would  think  of 
taking  a seat  in  the  stalls  of  a London  theatre.  But 
to-night  he  had  transcended  himself.  He  looked  at 
Aunt  Betty  arrogantly  with  his  lower  lip  hanging. 

“I  want  a drink,”  he  replied  gruffly,  in  a low  voice. 
Then  he  added  after  a pause  with  a sudden  hoarse 
chuckle,  “an’  anythin’  else  that's  goin’.” 

“Ye  can’t  get  a drink  here,  ’ said  Aunt  Betty. 
“You  better  be  going  somewhere  else.  You’re 
wasting  your  time  here,  my  good  man.” 

Aunt  Betty  spoke  in  a state  of  great  excitement. 
This  was  habitual  with  her,  owing  to  the  terrific  strain 
it  caused  her  to  try  to  effect  the  correct  pronuncia- 
tion of  her  words  and  “the  educated  accent  of  a 
woman  of  good  family.”  For  she  always  tried  to 
speak  like  a lady. 

Gypo  took  no  notice  of  her,  or  of  the  pimp  who  had 
again  entered  the  room  and  now  stood  against  the 
wall,  with  his  terror-stricken  eyes  gleaming  and  his 
face  livid  with  malice. 

“Here,”  he  cried,  “ give  everybody  a drink.  I’m 
callin’  a drink  for  the  house.” 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  pulled  out  the 
roll  of  notes  and  separated  one,  which  he  held  out  to 
Aunt  Betty.  It  was  like  the  performance  of  a mira- 
cle. Aunt  Betty’s  eyes  sparkled.  She  advanced 
almost  unconsciously,  laughing  with  her  thin,  hard 
lips,  while  her  eyes  gleamed  with  avarice.  Her 

162 


THE  INFORMER 

fingers  almost  trembled  as  she  took  the  note  slowly. 
Feverishly,  she  examined  it  under  the  light.  Gypo 
laughed  as  she  did  so  and  gave  her  a loud,  hearty 
smack  on  the  back,  with  horrid  familiarity.  She 
merely  nudged  him  playfully  in  response.  The  note 
was  genuine  and  had  passed  her  scrutiny.  She 
sighed  and  cracked  her  fingers  towards  the  pimp. 

“Glasses  all  round,”  she  said. 

There  was  a little  thrill  of  applause  from  the 
throats  of  the  women  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  his 
money  was  genuine.  Some  of  those  who  were  sitting 
alone,  dressed  for  the  street,  got  up  and  approached 
him,  uttering  laughing  endearments.  Even  the 
women  who  were  already  engaged,  sitting  on  the 
knees  of  the  men,  slightly  tipsy,  sobered  up  and  be- 
came contemplative  and  sulkily  jealous  of  those 
women  who  were  free  to  capture  Gypo  and  his  wad 
of  Treasury  notes. 

The  men,  on  the  other  hand,  now  regarded  him 
with  hostility,  jealous  of  the  attraction  he  held  for 
the  women. 

Only  one  person  in  the  room  took  absolutely  no 
notice  of  the  whole  proceedings.  That  was  the 
woman  in  the  fur  coat,  who  sat  in  the  corner  to  the 
right  of  the  fire,  reading  the  newspaper. 

And  Gypo,  disregarding  the  soft,  naked  arms  that 
attempted  to  embrace  him  and  the  amorous,  sensu- 
ous faces,  that  were  turned  up  to  his  on  all  sides  and 

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THE  INFORMER 

the  soft,  seductive,  sibilant  whispers  that  were  ut- 
tered at  him,  kept  his  eyes  towards  the  indifferent 
woman  in  the  corner  fixedly. 

“Keep  out  of  me  way,”  he  muttered. 

He  pushed  the  girls  away  from  him,  strode  over  to 
the  corner  and  stood  beside  the  mysterious  one.  He 
stood  over  her,  breathing  heavily,  looking  down  at 
her.  She  glanced  at  his  knees  from  under  her  eye- 
lids. Then  she  puffed  at  her  cigarette,  flicked  some- 
thing off  her  sleeve  with  her  thumb  and  forefinger 
and  went  on  reading  her  newspaper.  The  other 
women  looked  on  silently  with  narrowed  eyes.  The 
men  began  to  smile.  Everybody  was  interested  in 
what  the  fur-coated  woman  would  do. 

Gypo  sat  down  beside  her.  He  sat  on  the  floor 
with  his  back  to  the  wall. 

“Aren’t  ye  hot  wearin’  that  fur  coat?”  he  said. 

She  did  not  reply.  There  was  a titter  from  the 
women. 

“What’s  all  the  news  in  the  paper  about?”  con- 
tinued Gypo. 

The  woman  did  not  reply.  One  of  the  men  burst 
into  laughter,  making  a sound  like  an  explosion,  as 
if  his  mouth  had  been  full  of  laughter  a long  time 
and  it  suddenly  burst  out. 

“Horrid  man!  Go  ’way,”  said  somebody  else, 
mimicking  the  voice  of  a timid  and  refined  woman. 

Gypo’s  face  darkened  and  his  throat  veins  swelled 
ominously.  But  just  then  the  drinks  arrived.  He 

164 


THE  INFORMER 

jumped  to  his  feet  and  rushed  over  to  the  pimp  who 
was  carrying  them.  He  drained  one  glass  of  whisky, 
then  another,  then  another.  An  outcry  arose. 

“Hey,  don’t  drink  the  lot.” 

“Savage.” 

“What  d’ye  mean  by  callin’  a drink  for  us  an’  then 
swallowin’  ’em  all  yoursel’?” 

“Hey!  Stop  him,  Johnny.  Take  the  tray  away 
from  him.” 

“You  all  go  to  the  divil,”  gasped  Gypo.  The 
whisky  rushing  down  his  throat  had  taken  his  breath 
away.  “Wait  there.  There’s  lots  more.” 

He  pulled  out  another  pound  note  and  tossed  it  to 
Aunt  Betty  carelessly. 

“There  ye  are,”  he  cried,  “go  an’  get  more  drinks.” 

Then  amid  the  delighted  yells  of  the  girls  he 
drained  three  more  glasses  one  after  the  other,  each 
one  at  a gulp,  while  the  women  danced  around  him. 

Suddenly  the  whole  company  went  into  a state  of 
mad  excitement.  Human  beings  always  respond  in 
that  way  to  the  mysterious  influence  of  a fresh  and 
dominant  personality,  who,  with  a word,  a gesture,  a 
shout,  turns  a solemn  and  bored  gathering  into  an 
almost  Bacchanalian  party.  It  seemed  that  all  the 
people  in  the  room  had  only  awaited  the  arrival  of 
Gypo  to  abandon  themselves  completely  to  an  orgy 
of  mad  behaviour.  Shouts,  shrieks,  smacking  kisses, 
laughter,  mingled  chaotically  in  the  warm  air  of 
the  room.  Each  of  the  men  vied  with  his  neighbours 

165 


THE  INFORMER 

in  an  exaggerated  attempt  to  make  a fool  of  himself. 
A young  man  with  an  innocent,  red  face  and  beauti- 
ful grey  eyes,  a student,  stood  up  precariously  in 
front  of  the  fire,  laughing  incontinently  and  began 
to  strip  himself  naked.  Another  man,  a big  fellow, 
seized  a girl  in  his  arms,  tumbled  with  her  to  the 
floor  and  lay  there  shouting  and  trying  to  kiss  her, 
while  she  struggled  to  free  her  loosened  hair  from 
beneath  his  shoulder.  Gypo  picked  up  two  women 
and  perched  them  one  on  each  shoulder.  Then  he 
seized  two  others  round  the  waist,  raised  them  from 
the  ground  under  his  arms  and  began  to  jump  into 
the  air,  yelling  like  a bull  with  each  jump,  while  his 
fluttering,  half-naked  cargo  of  women  laughed  hys- 
terically as  they  dangled  about  him. 

This  amazing  scene  lasted  fully  a quarter  of  an 
hour  and  then  ended  suddenly.  Everybody  seemed 
to  be  exhausted.  It  was  only  then  that  Aunt  Betty’s 
voice  was  heard  above  the  uproar. 

“Do  ye  want  to  get  me  run  in  be  the  police?”  she 
cried. 

“It’s  all  right,  mother,”  said  Gypo,  going  up  to  her 
and  putting  his  arm  around  her  waist.  “Yer  a nice 
girl.  I’ll  keep  order  here  for  ye.  Now  who  is 
kickin’  up  a row?  The  next  fellah  that  speaks  above 
a whisper  I’ll  open  his  skull  for  him.” 

“Would  you,  though?”  cried  the  young  man  who 
was  stripping  himself  naked.  He  stood  in  front  of 
the  fire  in  his  trousers  and  underwear  with  his  shirt 

166 


THE  INFORMER 

in  his  hand.  “I’ll  teach  you  manners,  my  good  fel- 
low,” he  continued,  pulling  up  his  trousers  and  bran- 
dishing his  shirt.  “Come  on.  I’ll  teach  you  how  to 
behave  yourself  in  the  presence  of  gentlemen.” 

But  somebody  pulled  him  on  to  a settee  before  he 
could  do  anything.  Gypo  looked  at  him  for  a mo- 
ment and  then  he  laughed.  His  eyes  were  gleaming. 
The  quantity  of  whisky  he  had  drunk  was  coursing 
through  his  head  and  his  limbs  as  if  it  were  being 
pumped  methodically  by  a machine.  He  released 
Aunt  Betty  and  took  a pace  towards  the  centre  of  the 
floor.  Then  he  shivered  all  over  and  gasped  for 
breath.  He  broke  into  a laugh.  He  walked  over  to 
the  fur-coated  woman  without  looking  in  her  direc- 
tion. He  stooped  down,  put  his  arms  about  her, 
lifted  her  up  until  her  face  was  level  with  his  and  he 
kissed  her.  His  clumsy  lips  met  her  right  cheek. 
They  groped  about  for  her  mouth,  but  they  could  not 
reach  it  on  account  of  her  frantic  efforts  to  free  her- 
self. He  lost  his  balance  and  let  her  down  to  the 
floor.  He  regained  his  balance,  laughing  heavily  and 
wiping  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve. 

There  was  an  intense  silence.  The  woman  stood  in 
front  of  him  erect  and  trembling.  She  held  her 
hands  rigid  by  her  sides,  with  the  long,  slender  fingers 
bent  backwards.  She  was  dressed  in  excellent  taste, 
black  shoes,  navy-blue  skirt,  short  fur  coat,  small, 
black  hat,  from  under  whose  brim  brown  curls  pro- 
truded. She  was  a handsome  woman,  a beautiful 

167 


THE  INFORMER 

woman,  but  for  her  face.  The  left  side  of  her  face 
was  disfigured  in  a ghastly  way  from  the  temple  to 
the  jaw.  So  that  one  cheek  was  white  and  the  other 
almost  black.  The  left  eye  was  darkened  and  al- 
most sightless,  while  the  right  eye  was  blue,  clear  and 
gleaming  with  anger.  The  disfigurement  touched 
the  corner  of  her  mouth.  The  remainder  of  the 
mouth  was  red-lipped,  arched  and  beautiful. 

Suddenly,  she  bared  her  white  teeth  and  spat  at 
Gypo  with  the  ferocity  of  a wild  animal. 

He  shivered.  His  hands  clawed  up.  His  face 
contorted  and  he  swivelled  his  head  on  his  neck  from 
left  to  right  and  back  again,  like  a ram  that  is  going 
to  charge  an  enemy.  A woman  near  the  fire  gasped 
with  horror.  But  Gypo  did  not  attack.  Instead  of 
advancing  on  the  woman  he  took  a pace  to  his  rear 
and  let  his  breath  out  through  his  nostrils  with  a 
great  noise.  Then  he  stood  motionless,  with  his  eyes 
distended,  staring  at  the  infuriated  woman  in  awe 
and  wonder.  She  was  staring  at  him  with  her  eyes 
almost  closed. 

“You  pig,”  she  gasped. 

There  was  a painful  silence.  Each  person  in  the 
room  felt  sure  that  a catastrophe  was  imminent. 
The  fact  that  the  room,  a few  minutes  before,  had 
been  full  of  the  sound  of  libidinous  revelry  made  the 
silence  all  the  more  terrible.  Everybody  watched 
Gypo.  His  huge  body,  monstrous  with  strange 
movement,  stood  under  the  glare  of  the  lamp  that 

168 


THE  INFORMER 

hung  from  the  ceiling.  His  face,  staring  steadily  at 
the  woman,  changed  again  and  again,  in  response  to 
the  dark  and  mysterious  suggestions  that  chased  one 
another  through  his  mind.  At  one  moment  his  chest 
would  heave  and  his  limbs  would  stiffen.  Then  his 
breath  would  come  out  with  a snap.  His  jaws  would 
set.  His  eyes  would  expand.  A movement  would 
begin  in  his  throat.  Then  a sound  like  a curtailed 
snort  would  come  from  his  nostrils. 

At  last,  after  waiting  for  twenty  seconds,  the  spec- 
tators were  startled  by  the  unexpected  outcome  of 
these  movements.  Gypo  broke  into  a roar  of  laugh- 
ter. He  raised  his  head  and  laughed  at  the  ceiling. 
Everybody  gaped  at  him  in  fright.  All  gaped  at 
him,  terrified,  except  the  woman.  As  if  in  response 
to  his  laughter,  laughter  broke  from  her  lips  too, 
but  it  was  the  shrill,  thin  laughter  of  hysteria,  that 
made  her  eyes  glitter  coldly. 

Breaking  off  in  the  middle  of  his  laugh,  Gypo 
strode  over  to  Aunt  Betty.  He  took  her  by  the  arm, 
pointed  his  finger  at  the  woman  in  the  fur  coat  and 
whispered  hoarsely: 

“I  want  her.  Get  me  a room.  I want  to  take  her 
upstairs.  Ye  can  have  whatever  money  ye  ask.” 

“Never,”  shrieked  the  woman  in  the  fur  coat. 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  face.  Then  she  took  a 
tiny  step  forward  with  her  right  foot  and  stood  lean- 
ing on  the  foot,  trembling  as  if  she  had  planted  it 
on  ice. 


169 


THE  INFORMER 

“None  of  this  nonsense,  Phyllis,”  said  Aunt  Betty, 
coming  forward  to  the  centre  of  the  room.  She 
faced  the  fur-coated  woman  with  her  arms  akimbo 
and  her  jaws  squared.  “I’m  fed  up  with  your 
swagger.  You’re  no  better  than  yer  board  and  lodg- 
ing, an’  as  long  as  I keep  you,  you’re  no  better  than 
any  other  woman  that  takes  bite  and  sup  in  my 
house.  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it.  One 
man  is  as  good  as  another.  You’re  going  with  him.” 

“That’s  true,  Aunt  Betty,”  cried  several  women, 
looking  with  hatred  at  the  fur-coated  woman. 

“Rabble,”  shrieked  the  fur-coated  woman,  stamp- 
ing her  feet  and  shaking  her  fists  all  round  her  at  the 
women.  “What  filthy  souls  you  have  to  be  reduced 
to  this  level.  I’m  not  a prostitute  like  you  and  that’s 
why  you  hate  me.  You  hate  me  because  I’m  an  edu- 
cated woman  and ” 

“It’s  nothin’  o’  the  kind,”  cried  a big,  large-boned, 
red-faced,  strong,  handsome  woman,  called  Conne- 
mara Maggie.  “We  hate  ye  because  yer  a stuck-up, 
ignorant  thing,  that  thinks  she’s  better  than  what 
God  turned  her  into;  an’  God  forgive  me  for 
sayin’  so ” 

“More  power  to  ye,  Maggie,”  interrupted  several, 
“tell  her  yer  mind.” 

“I  don’t  mind  what  you  say,  Connemara  Maggie,” 
gasped  the  fur-coated  one.  “You’re  not  the  worst 
of  them  and ” 


170 


THE  INFORMER 

“Good  God,”  shouted  Aunt  Betty,  suddenly  put- 
ting her  hands  to  her  breasts. 

She  backed  to  the  wall,  staring  furtively  at  the 
fur-coated  woman.  She  was  in  the  power  of  one  of 
her  “visions.”  Gypo  stared  at  the  woman  in  the  fur 
coat  with  his  arms  hanging  loosely  by  his  sides. 

“Listen,”  continued  the  woman,  “I  don’t  bear  any 
of  you  any  malice.  You  can’t  help  it,  any  of  you. 
I don’t  bear  even  you  any  malice,  Aunt  Betty. 
I know  very  well  that  were  it  not  for  you  I would 
starve  or  . . . or  be  in  a worse  place.  I have  been 
in  your  house  a month  now  and  you’ve  been  kind 
to  me.  I know  very  well  nobody  can  help  any- 
thing. I’m  English,  an  army  officer’s  wife,  so  it’s 
only  natural  that  you  girls  would  be  prejudiced 
against  me ” 

“It’s  nothing  o’  the  kind,”  cried  Connemara 
Maggie;  “it’s  yer  stuck-up  ways  that ” 

“Let  her  have  her  say,  Maggie,”  cried  another. 

“I  had  no  right  to  come  in  here,”  cried  the  woman, 
bursting  into  tears.  “I  should  have  gone  to  the 
police  and  got  them ” 

“The  police!”  yelled  Gypo  suddenly,  starting  as  if 
he  had  been  awakened  from  his  sleep.  “None  o’ 
that  talk.  Keep  away  from  the  police.  What  d’ye 
want  the  police  for?” 

“I  want  to  get  back  home,”  sobbed  the  woman. 

“Where’s  yer  home?” 


171 


THE  INFORMER 

“It’s  . . . it’s  near  London.” 

“Well,  what  are  ye  doin’  over  here  then?” 

“I  got  this,”  cried  the  woman,  becoming  hysterical 
again.  She  put  a trembling  hand  to  her  disfigured 
cheek.  “I  got  this  a year  ago.  It’s  driven  me  mad. 
My  husband  took  another  woman.  I sold  every- 
thing I had  and  came  over  to  Dublin.  I wanted  to 
go  to  work.  Honest  to  God,  I did.  But  I could  get 
nothing.  Then  a man  brought  me  down  here. 
Good  God,  the  shame  of  telling  you  all  this  in  a place 
like  this  . . . the  . . 

“D’ye  want  to  go  home  now?”  cried  Gypo  angrily. 

She  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  him  with  large 
eyes,  as  if  in  amazement. 

“What’ll  bring  ye  home?”  he  continued.  “How 
much  will  it  cost?” 

“A  little  over  two  pounds,”  she  replied  in  a low 
voice. 

“Here,”  he  cried,  taking  out  his  money,  “here’s 
yer  fare.  One,  two,  three,”  he  paused  and  was  go- 
ing to  add  a fourth,  but  he  put  it  back.  He  handed 
her  the  three  notes.  She  shrank  backwards,  look- 
ing at  the  money  with  large  eyes. 

“Don’t  be  afraid,”  he  said  in  a strange,  dreamy 
voice.  “Take  the  money  an’  get  outa  here.  That’s 
enough  to  take  ye  home.  Go  back  home.  Yer  not 
wanted  here.  You  an’  yer  husband  and  the  police. 
Ye  better  keep  away  from  the  police,  I’m  tellin’  ye. 
Go  on.  Beat  it.  Get  outa  here.” 

172 


THE  INFORMER 

Staring  him  in  the  face,  trembling,  with  her  mouth 
open,  she  seized  the  notes  suddenly.  Then  utter- 
ing an  exclamation,  she  looked  about  her  once  and 
rushed  to  the  door. 

“Go  off  now,”  cried  Gypo  after  her.  “Go  off 
now.” 

Everybody  stared  at  the  door  through  which  she 
disappeared,  banging  it  after  her.  There  was  si- 
lence. Then  Aunt  Betty  spoke: 

“That’s  all  very  well,”  she  sniggered;  “but  she 
owes  me  two  pound  ten.  Who’s  goin’  to  pay  me 
that?  It’s  all  very  well  doin’  the ” 

“Shut  up  yer  gob,”  cried  Gypo,  “here’s  two  pound 
for  ye.  That’s  enough.  Not  another  word  outa 
ye.”  He  threw  two  pound  notes  at  her.  Then  he 
threw  out  his  arms.  “Who’s  cornin’  to  bed  with 
me,”  he  cried,  “before  the  bank  is  broke?” 

“I  am,  me  bould  son  o’  gosha,”  cried  Connemara 
Maggie,  rushing  to  him,  with  her  yellow  curly  hair 
streaming  about  her  face  and  her  blue  eyes  dancing. 

She  enveloped  his  neck  with  her  brawny  arms. 


173 


CHAPTER  X 


At  fifteen  minutes  to  one,  Bartly  Mul- 
holland  entered  Biddy  Burke’s  kitchen  and 
sat  by  the  fire.  Nobody  addressed  him. 
He  saluted  nobody.  Biddy  Burke  was  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fire,  on  a stool,  smoking  a cigarette. 

Biddy  Burke  was  a middle-aged  woman  with  a 
lowering  expression  in  her  black  eyes,  with  puffed- 
out,  sallow  cheeks  and  a swollen  throat.  She  was 
of  the  type  of  Irishwoman  that  is  prone  to  sudden 
passions,  due  to  the  habit  of  eating  enormous  meals 
and  then  suffering  from  digestive  disorders.  They 
are  tender-hearted  people,  utterly  lacking  in  an 
aesthetic  sense,  violent,  quarrelsome,  savage,  gener- 
ous, inconsistent.  Biddy  was  dressed  in  a white 
blouse  and  a blue  skirt.  She  wore  her  greyish  hair 
drawn  back  to  her  poll  tightly  and  parted  in  the 
middle  according  to  the  peasant  fashion. 

There  were  other  people  in  the  room,  two  young 
women  who  sat  on  chairs  and  Jimmy  “the  fancy 
man,”  who  lay  on  his  right  side,  on  the  settle  op- 
posite the  fire. 

Mulholland  looked  around  the  room  slowly. 
Then  he  spoke. 


174 


THE  INFORMER 

“Was  Gypo  Nolan  here  this  evenin’,  Mrs.  Burke?” 
he  said. 

Biddy  Burke  slowly  shook  her  head,  carefully  ex- 
amining Mulholland’s  face  as  she  did  so.  Then,  as 
if  she  suddenly  remembered  something  important, 
she  leaned  forward  and  bunched  her  lips  together. 

“There  hasn’t  a man  stood  within  me  door  this 
blessed  night,”  she  said  in  her  rough,  croaky  voice. 
“No,  nor  damn  the  bottle  o’  stout  did  I sell.  That’s 
the  God’s  truth.  Some  people  find  Biddy  Burke  all 
right  when  they’re  in  trouble  an’  they  got  nothin’, 
but  when  their  tune  changes  they  give  her  a wide 
berth.  I’ll  soon  be  in  the  workhouse  at  the  rate 
things  are  goin’.  I never  saw  anythin’  like  it.  The 
country  is  goin’  to  the  wall.  That’s  all  there’s  to  it. 
I knew  they’d  make  a mess  of  it  with  their  revolu- 
tions an’  their  shootin’  the  peelers.  Not  that  I didn’t 
do  me  bit  to  help  the  boys,  God  bless  ’em,  but  ’tisn’t 
the  boys  that  done  the  fightin’  that  get  the  jobs. 
So  it  isn’t.  It  never  is,  if  ye  ask  Biddy  Burke.  It’s 
them  publicans  an’  bishops  that  were  always  top  dog 
in  this  country.  ’Twas  that  way  before  an’  ’tis  that 
way  now  an’  ’twill  be  that  way  when  Biddy  Burke  is 
goin’  to  meet  her  God  on  the  day  of  judgment.  They 
were  talkin’  about  English  tyrants,  but  sure  nobody 
ever  saw  the  likes  o’  these  tyrants  with  their  searches 
an’  their  raids,  an’  every  divil’s  wart  of  a farmer’s 
son  that  can  pull  on  his  breeches  without  his  mother’s 
help,  runnin’  around  an’  callin’  himself  a gineral. 

175 


THE  INFORMER 

Aw!  Gypo  Nolan!  He’s  like  the  rest  o’  them, 
Bartly  Mulholland.  You  take  it  from  Biddy.  In- 
deed then,  he  hasn’t  set  a foot  within  me  door.  It’s 
not  that  I haven’t  heard  of  his  goin’s  on  though. 
Huh!” 

“What  did  ye  hear  about  him?”  asked  Mulhol- 
land, peering  at  her. 

“What  did  I hear  about  him?”  cried  Biddy  Burke. 
“What  d’ye  take  me  for,  Bartly  Mulholland?  An 
information  bureau  or  what?  Don’t  be  both- 
erin’ me.” 

Mulholland  sighed.  Then  he  took  out  his  pipe 
and  lit  it.  He  put  his  back  against  the  wall  and  be- 
gan to  smoke  in  apparent  comfort.  There  was  si- 
lence. Through  the  open  street  door  sounds  of  foot- 
steps and  of  voices  came  in  through  the  rain  now 
and  again.  They  were  subdued  sounds.  It  seemed 
that  everything  was  waiting  for  something  monstrous 
to  happen. 

The  two  young  women  began  in  their  gruff, 
cracked  voices  to  discuss  the  death  of  Francis  Joseph 
McPhillip.  They  talked  casually,  in  whispers,  in- 
differently. 

Mulholland  peered  at  them  for  a moment.  Then 
he  sank  back  into  his  thoughts.  His  thoughts  just 
then  were  not  at  all  comfortable.  He  had  lost  track 
of  Gypo.  He  had  been  wandering  about  trying  to 
find  his  quarry  again,  absolutely  without  success. 
Gypo  had  been  swallowed  up.  A more  nervous  man 

176 


THE  INFORMER 

than  Mulholland  would  have  not  taken  the  matter  so 
philosophically,  so  coolly.  Because  if  Gypo  could 
not  be  found  again,  Mulholland’s  own  life  would  be 
m serious  danger.  But  Mulholland  was  not  con- 
sidering that  aspect  of  the  affair.  Mulholland  was 
a sincere  revolutionist.  It  was  the  danger  to  the 
“cause”  that  worried  him.  The  “cause”  was  his 
whole  existence.  He  did  not  understand  any  other 
purpose  in  life  except  the  achievement  of  an  Irish 
Workers’  Republic. 

Still  . . . as  he  sat  on  the  stool,  stoically  smok- 
ing his  pipe,  other  worries  came  into  his  mind.  If 
he  could  not  find  Gypo  and  anything  serious  hap- 
pened to  himself  as  a result,  what  would  become  of 
his  wife  and  his  six  young  children?  He  hardly 
ever  thought  of  them  seriously,  in  this  way,  with  a 
view  to  the  future.  The  future  held  a workers’  re- 
public, somewhere  in  the  distance,  when  there  would 
be  no  slums,  no  hunger,  no  sick  wives,  no  children 
that  got  the  mumps  and  the  rickets  and  the  German 
measles  and  the  whooping-cough  with  devilish  regu- 
larity. It  never  worried  him  to  think  that  his  wife 
and  his  six  children  were  for  the  moment  living  in  a 
miserable  slum  shanty,  with  his  wife  going  rapidly 
into  a decline  through  hard  work.  That  had  to  be. 
The  “cause”  was  above  all  these  things.  Why! 
It  was  his  wife  who  often  urged  him  on  to  give  all  his 
time  to  the  “cause”  whenever  he  became  slightly  de- 
spondent or  disheartened,  timorous  or  apathetic. 

177 


THE  INFORMER 

Ever  struggling  without  reward ! 

So  he  thought  suddenly.  But  almost  as  soon  as 
the  thought  entered  his  brain  another  thought  came 
in  mad,  bloodshot  pursuit.  He  pulled  savagely  at 
his  pipe  and  ejected  the  first  thought  in  terror. 

Even  “mentally”  it  was  dangerous  to  think  of 
leaving  the  Organization  without  being  expelled. 
After  all  . . , terror  was  the  foundation  of  his  zeah 

He  forced  himself  into  his  habitual  calm.  His 
face  assumed  the  impenetrable  aspect  which  he  had 
developed  during  five  years  of  constant  practice. 
He  turned  to  Biddy  Burke  again. 

“Where  did  ye  say  ye  saw  Gypo  carrying  on?”  he 
said  casually. 

Biddy  Burke  looked  at  him  ferociously,  emitting 
two  columns  of  cigarette  smoke  through  her  fat 
nostrils. 

“I  didn’t  say  I saw  him  carryin’  on  anywhere, 
Bartly  Mulholland,”  she  said  angrily.  “Be  the 
holy!  These  late  years  every  one  o’  ye  is  as  smart 
as  a corporation  lawyer.  Now  look  here,  Bartly. 
I don’t  want  to  have  any  truck  atall  with  ye  or  yer 
crowd.  Ye  know  that  too.  I know  ye,  me  fine 
bucko,  an’  I don’t  think  . . . eh  . . . well  o’ 
course,  Bartly  ...  ye  know  what  I mane.  . . . It’s 
not  . . . uh  . . . that  I mane  any  harm  . . . but 
a poor  woman  like  mesel’  ...  o’  course  I’m  ready 
as  I said  before  to  do  me  duty  for  me  fellow-men 
. . . but  it’s  like  this  . . . what  does  a woman  like 

178 


THE  INFORMER 

me  gain  be  gettin’  mixed  up  in  politics  . . . that  is 
o’  course  . . . look  here,”  she  continued  in  a lower 
voice,  “I  heard  he  was  up  in  Aunt  Betty’s,  raisin’ 
hell  up  there.  He  was  one  o’  your  crowd, 
wasn’t  he?” 

Mulholland  looked  at  her  sombrely.  She  drew 
back  immediately. 

“Well,  ye  know  me  well,  Bartly,”  she  muttered 
apologetically  and  nervously.  “I’m  not  sayin’  any- 
thin’ out  o’  place.  Am  I,  girls?  Sure ” 

Just  then  an  interruption  came  from  outside. 
Footsteps  came  rushing  to  the  door.  Then  gasps 
were  heard.  Then  a panting  sound  became  audible. 
Then  Katie  Fox  burst  into  the  room,  with  her  right 
hand  on  her  hip,  her  eyes  glittering,  looking  about 
her  wildly.  She  rushed  up  to  Biddy  Burke.  She 
bent  down  from  the  hips  towards  her  and  began 
to  speak  immediately,  gasping  after  each  word. 

“What  d’ye  think  of  it,  Biddy?”  she  cried.  “D’ye 
know  where  I found  him?  D’ye  know  where  I 
found  him?  The  big  hulkin’  waster!  An’  she 
that’s  not  fit  to  walk  the  same  street  as  me  with  her 
big,  ugly  arms  around  his  neck!  She  laughed  in  me 
face.  She  laughed” — screaming — “in  me  face!  I 
wish  to  God  I had  hit  her  with  the  bottle  I threw. 
That  ud  spoil  her  mug.  Though  it  was  spoiled 
enough  the  day  she  was  born.  Who  was  she,  may  I 
ask?  Who  was  she,  Biddy  Burke?  I’m  askin’  ye. 
Ye  don’t  know  an’  ye’d  never  guess  in  a thousand 

179 


THE  INFORMER 


years.  Who  would  she  be  but  me  bould  Connemara 
Maggie!  That  imperent  trapster  that  came  up  here 
last  year  as  a skivvy  in  a Gaelic  Leaguer’s  house,  one 
o’  them  crazy  fellahs  that  goes  around  in  kilts.  She 
came  up  here  an’  before  she  was  three  months  in  town 
she  was  put  in  the  family  way  be  a soldier.  Then 
she  comes  down  here,  with  her  curly  locks  an’  her  big 
face  like  a heifer,  savin’  the  comparison.  I pushed 
up  past  Aunt  Betty  in  the  hall  an’  she  shoutin’  after 
me.  I bust  into  the  room  an’  there  he  was,  sittin’  on 
the  floor,  with  his  legs  spread  out,  drinkin’  outa  the 
neck  of  a bottle,  laughin’  like  a fool,  with  her  sittin’ 
beside  him.  ‘Hello,  Katie,’  says  he,  ‘d’ye  want  a 
drink?’  ‘ ’Twill  do  ye  good,’  says  she  with  a giggle. 
Me  curse  on  her!  I gave  him  a bit  o’  me  mind  an’ 
. . . Biddy,  for  God’s  sake,  gimme  a drink  o’  water. 
Biddy,  listen.” 

She  threw  herself  suddenly  at  Biddy’s  feet  and 
began  to  moan.  But  almost  immediately  she 
jumped  to  her  feet  again  and  cried  out: 

“An’  what’s  more  he  gave  three  quid  to  that  swank 
of  an  Englishwoman.  He  gave  her  three  quid  and 
he  paid  two  quid  more  to  Aunt  Betty,  money  that 
was  owin’  to  her  for  board,  an’  he  never  gave  me  a 
penny.  Me  that  kept  him  for  the  last  six  months 
when  I hadn’t  a bite  mesel’.  But  I’ll  tell  everybody. 
I’ll  tell.” 

She  looked  around  her  wildly.  She  saw  Mulhol- 
land.  She  came  up  to  him  and  bent  down  close  to 

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THE  INFORMER 

his  face.  Her  hat  trailed  off.  Her  hair  fell  down 
over  her  eyes.  She  swayed.  She  pointed  her  right 
forefinger  menacingly  at  Mulholland’s  forehead. 

“Listen  to  me,  Bartly,”  she  said.  “You  remem- 
ber me  when  I was  a good  girl  an’  when  I was  a mem- 
ber o’  ...  ye  know  yersel’  . . . Well,  so  was  he, 
wasn’t  he?  Well,  can  ye  tell  me  how  did  Frankie 
McPhillip  get  plugged?  Who  got  the  twenty  quid 
that  the  Farmers’  Union  gave  out?  Where  did  he 
get  the  money?  I’m  not  shoutin’  any  names.  No 
names,  no  pack  drills.  But  ye  can  guess  for  yersel’. 
Where  did  he  get  his  money  from?  Was  it  be  rob- 
bin’  a sailor  at  the  back  o’  Cassidy’s  same  as  he 
told  me  in  the  pub?  Was  it?”  She  suddenly  threw 
her  hands  over  her  head  and  clawed  the  air,  shriek- 
ing. They  jumped  up  and  caught  her. 

Mulholland  got  to  his  feet  quietly.  He  stole  out 
into  the  street,  avoiding  the  people  who  came  rushing 
up  to  Biddy  Burke’s  door,  attracted  by  the  scream- 
ing. 

Mulholland  chuckled  as  he  crossed  the  street.  He 
would  have  plenty  of  news  for  Gallagher.  After 
this  there  would  be  little  difficulty  in  his  getting  Mc- 
Phillip’s  job  on  the  Head-quarters  Staff.  He  stole 
quietly  into  the  hallway  of  Aunt  Betty’s  house.  He 
went  noiselessly  up  the  stairs  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  revellers  who  were  still  “on  the  tear.” 
He  reached  the  landing.  There  were  three  doors, 
with  light  streaming  through  each  of  them.  He  lis- 

181 


THE  INFORMER 


tened  at  each  door.  The  third  was  the  right  one. 
He  stood  straight.  He  lifted  the  latch  suddenly  and 
strode  into  the  room.  He  called  out  as  he  did  so 
dramatically: 

“Come  on,  Gypo,  it’s  time  for  ye  to  be  cornin’ 
with  me.” 

For  a moment  he  could  see  nobody,  owing  to  his 
excitement  and  the  thick  mist  of  smoke  and  un- 
escaped vapours  which  filled  the  room.  He  stood 
within  the  door  with  his  feet  spread  out  wide  on  the 
bare  moth-eaten  boards  of  the  floor,  with  his  right 
hand  in  his  pocket  fingering  his  revolver.  His  heart 
was  beating  wildly.  Then  he  became  aware  of 
Gypo’s  presence.  He  felt  that  peculiar  movement  in 
his  head  that  the  realization  of  Gypo’s  presence  al- 
ways caused,  a little  snapping  movement  of  unrea- 
soning terror.  Then  he  heard  Gypo’s  voice,  heavy 
and  hoarse  with  drunkenness,  but  cordial  and 
friendly  and  distinctly  patronizing. 

"Hello,  Bartly.  Sit  down  an’  have  a drink. 
Plenty  time  yet.” 

Then  he  turned  his  head  towards  the  fireplace 
and  saw  Gypo. 

Gypo  was  sitting  on  the  floor  to  the  right  of  the 
fire,  in  a corner,  in  half-darkness,  bare  to  the  waist, 
with  his  trousered  legs  stretched  out  at  a wide  angle, 
sitting  bolt  upright,  a bottle  gripped  in  his  right 
hand  between  his  knees,  his  feet  bare. 

182 


THE  INFORMER 

Connemara  Maggie  was  standing  by  the  fire  dry- 
ing Gypo’s  shirt,  his  jacket  and  his  socks.  The 
big  boots  were  resting  on  a fender  before  the  fire, 
steaming.  She  took  no  notice  of  Mulholland’s  en- 
trance. With  her  golden  hair  hanging  in  disorder 
over  her  face,  with  her  blouse  undone,  with  her 
strong,  heavy-boned  face  covered  with  perspiration, 
with  her  great,  soft  eyes  swollen  and  gentle  like  the 
eyes  of  a heifer,  she  busied  herself  tending  her  man, 
just  as  if  she  had  never  left  the  purity  of  her  Con- 
nemara hills  and  she  were  tending  her  peasant  spouse 
after  a hard  day’s  work  in  the  fields;  instead  of  tend- 
ing a casual  lover  in  the  sordid  environment  of  a 
brothel.  There  was  no  hint  of  vice  or  of  libidinous 
pleasure  in  her  face  or  in  her  movements.  She 
seemed  to  be,  like  Gypo  himself,  a child  of  the 
earth,  unconscious  of  the  artificial  sins  that  are  the 
handiwork  of  the  city.  In  her  two  brawny  arms 
she  held  the  steaming  shirt  to  the  blaze.  She  stood 
silent  and  immovable. 

There  was  little  else  in  the  small,  whitewashed, 
low-ceilinged  room.  A bed  with  the  clothes  tousled 
on  it,  a quilt  that  lay  on  the  floor  by  the  bed,  a chair 
on  three  legs  and  a weatherbeaten  washstand,  con- 
taining a basin  and  a broken  jug,  comprised  the 
furniture. 

Mulholland  looked  around  at  all  this  before  he 
spoke.  It  was  as  well  to  get  the  correct  details  in 

183 


THE  INFORMER 

case  identification  were  necessary.  Gypo  might 
deny  it.  Then  he  spoke.  He  had  recovered  his 
nerve. 

“No,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  want  a drink.  It’s  time 
for  ye  to  be  cornin’.” 

“Be  off  with  ye,  ye  little  divil,”  yelled  Gypo,  sud- 
denly jumping  to  his  feet,  with  a great  scraping  and 
slapping  noise.  “Who  are  ye  givin’  orders  to?” 

He  took  a pace  forward  and  reached  out  his  right 
hand,  but  Mulholland  had  drawn  his  revolver  and 
taken  a pace  to  his  rear.  At  the  same  time  he  called 
out  in  a hissing  whisper: 

“It’s  not  me  orders.  It’s  the  Commandant’s 
orders,  an’  ye  better  be  careful  about  disobeyin’ 
them.” 

Immediately  Gypo  drew  himself  up  and  let  his 
hands  drop  to  his  sides.  His  face,  which  had  lit  up 
with  anger,  dropped  into  that  peculiar  wondering 
expression,  which  he  wore  when  he  was  musing  on 
the  river  bank  before  he  went  into  the  police-station. 
He  looked  at  Mulholland  in  amazement.  His  fore- 
head wrinkled.  His  nostrils  expanded  and  con- 
tracted. His  thick  lips  moved  backwards  and  for- 
wards, up  and  down.  His  face  and  his  cropped  skull 
shone  in  the  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  that  rested  on 
the  mantelpiece  over  the  fire.  The  light  also  shone 
across  his  body,  over  a bulging  bare  shoulder  that 
stood  out  white  and  massive  and  round  below  his 
brown  neck.  The  shoulder  muscles  were  immense. 

184 


THE  INFORMER 

His  body  was  white  and  hairless.  His  skin  was  per- 
fectly smooth.  But  everywhere  the  muscles  strained 
against  the  skin,  in  irregular,  moving  mounds. 
They  swelled  out  on  his  breasts,  at  his  biceps,  above 
his  hips,  on  his  shoulders,  just  as  if  his  head  and  neck 
were  a massive  tree  growth  and  the  body  muscles 
were  its  roots,  sunk  into  the  body  promiscuously  and 
afar,  during  centuries  of  life. 

He  looked  at  Mulholland  for  some  seconds.  Then 
he  turned  to  Maggie. 

“Gimme  me  clothes,  Maggie,”  he  said  quietly. 

She  handed  them  to  him  in  silence.  He  dressed. 
He  put  on  his  little  tattered  round  hat.  Then  he  put 
his  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket.  He  took  out  all  the 
money  he  had  left.  Two  pounds  four  and  sixpence. 
He  put  the  four  and  sixpence  back  into  his  pocket. 
He  handed  the  two  pound  notes  to  Maggie. 

“Keep  one  an’  give  the  other  to  Katie  Fox,”  he 
said.  “Ye’ll  find  her  down  at  Biddy  Burke’s.” 

She  nodded  and  put  the  notes  within  her  blouse. 
“So  long,  Maggie.  See  you  again,”  he  said,  going 
to  the  door. 

“So  long,”  she  called  after  him  quietly. 

Gypo  stalked  out  unsteadily,  followed  by  Mul- 
holland. 

After  a little  while  Connemara  Maggie  also  left 
the  room.  She  went  down  to  Biddy  Burke’s. 

Biddy  Burke’s  was  now  thronged  with  people. 
They  were  mostly  women  of  the  district  and  their 

185 


THE  INFORMER 

men.  They  had  been  talking  at  a terrific  rate  when 
Maggie  came  in,  but  a strange  silence  fell  upon  them 
when  she  appeared.  She  did  not  take  any  notice  of 
them.  Going  up  to  Katie  Fox,  who  sat  by  the 
hearth,  on  the  seat  occupied  recently  by  Mulholland, 
she  took  out  the  pound  note  and  offered  it  to  her. 

“Gypo  Nolan  gave  me  this  for  ye,”  she  said 
quietly. 

Katie  Fox  looked  at  the  note.  Then  she  looked  at 
Maggie.  Her  under  lip  was  quivering.  Her  eyes 
opened  and  narrowed  spasmodically.  She  was 
moved  by  some  complex  emotion  that  she  could  not 
master  for  the  moment.  She  did  not  speak.  Others 
began  to  whisper.  Some  spoke  out  loud  and 
sharply: 

“Don’t  take  it,  Katie.  It’s  blood  money,”  said 
one. 

“Take  it,”  said  Biddy..  Enrko  indignantly.  “A 
pound  note  doesn’t  smell  when  iC*  ” 

“Money  is  the  common  whore  of  all  humanity,” 
stuttered  a tall,  lean,  drunken  gentleman,  who  dozed 
by  the  window  with  his  head  dangling. 

“I  bet  she  got  more  than  that  to  give  ye,”  said 
another  woman. 

“Yes,  I bet  she  has,”  cried  Katie  Fox,  suddenly 
settling  the  matter  that  was  agitating  her  mind,  what- 
ever it  was.  “I  know  her.  Out  with  it,  Connemara 
Maggie,”  she  screamed,  jumping  to  her  feet  and 
squaring  herself.  “Out  with  it  an’  don’t  stand  there 

186 


THE  INFORMER 

tryin’  to  melt  butter  in  me  mouth  with  yer  soft  looks. 
How  much  did  he  give  ye  for  me?  Don’t  tell  me 
he  only  gave  me  one  quid.  Yer  a liar  before  ye  open 
yer  mouth  to  say  so.  Ye ” 

“Well  of  all  the  stories — ” cried  Connemara 
Maggie  in  amazement. 

“Don’t  put  on  airs,  Maggie,”  said  a woman  beside 
her.  “Don’t  put  on  airs.” 

“Out  with  the  rest  o’  the  money,”  cried  Katie 
Fox. 

“Yer  a pack  o’  dogs,”  cried  Connemara  Maggie 
furiously.  “Yer  a pack  o’ ”. 

She  gasped  and  could  say  no  more,  astounded  and 
hurt  bitterly  by  the  slanderous  attack  from  Katie 
Fox,  to  whom  she  had  never  spoken  in  her  life  be- 
fore, except  to  say  good  morning.  She  fumbled  at 
her  blouse  and  took  out  the  other  pound  note  that 
Gypo  had  given  her  for  herself.  Then  she  took  a 
purse  from  a hiding-place  on  her  left  thigh.  She 
abstracted  another  note  from  that.  She  put  back 
the  purse  again.  She  threw  the  three  notes  at  Katie 
Fox. 

“There  ye  ...  ” she  hissed.  “That’s  all  his 
money.  Take  it.  Maybe  it’s  dirty  like  yersel’.  I 
am  well  rid  of  ye.  If  he’s  yer  man,  keep  him.” 

She  spat  and  strode  out  of  the  room,  swinging  her 
arms  and  knocking  out  of  her  way  all  who  came  in 
front  of  her. 

Some  stared  after  her  and  swore.  Others  looked 
187 


THE  INFORMER 


at  Katie  Fox.  Katie  had  the  three  pound  notes  in 
her  hands  and  her  lips  were  moving.  Then  Biddy 
Burke  whispered  something  to  her.  Immediately 
Katie  sighed  and  clutched  the  three  notes  in  her 
hand,  desperately,  staring  at  the  floor.  Then  she 
held  them  out  to  Biddy  Burke  rapidly,  without  look- 
ing in  their  direction.  They  lay  crumpled  in  a ball 
on  her  quivering  thin  palm. 

“Take  them,  Biddy,”  she  whispered.  Then  she 
suddenly  raised  her  voice  to  an  hysterical  shriek. 
“Take  them,  but  for  God’s  sake  hurry  and  give  me 
something  at  once.  Quick,  quick.  Give  it  to  me, 
Biddy.  Give  it  to  me.” 

ft 


188 


CHAPTER  XI 


In  the  Bogey  Hole  rats  scurried  about, 
careless  of  the  sentry  who  tramped  up  and 
down,  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  stone  pas- 
sage, with  his  rubber-heeled  boots  sounding  loudly 
in  the  cavernous  silence.  Drops  of  water  gathered 
slowly  on  the  stone  ceilings  and  then  fell  with  soft, 
empty  splashes  to  the  stone  floors.  Except  for  the 
scurrying  of  the  rats,  the  falling  of  the  water  and  the 
footfalls  of  the  sentry,  there  was  silence. 

The  Bogey  Hole,  in  which  the  Revolutionary 
Organization  were  about  to  hold  their  inquiry  into 
the  cause  of  the  dpat.h  nf  Franrk  Jnspnh  McPhillip. 
had  once  been  the  wine  cellars  of  a nobleman. 
Above  it  the  ruins  of  the  house  still  remained.  But 
everybody  had  long  since  forgotten  the  name  of  the 
owner  in  the  district.  The  hallway  of  the  house  was 
choked  with  rubbish.  The  two  top  stories  had  fallen 
in.  Only  a few  rooms  remained  in  a crumbling  state. 
Children  played  in  them  and  parties  of  men  played 
cards  for  money  there  on  Sundays.  That’s  all. 
But  the  wine  cellars  underneath  were  often  used  by 
the  Revolutionary  Organization  as  a meeting-place 
and  for  other  purposes. 

189 


THE  INFORMER 

A wide  stone  stairway  led  down  into  the  cellars 
from  the  rear  of  the  hallway.  There  was  a wide 
passage  running  straight  through  the  cellars  and 
rooms  opened  off  the  passage  on  either  side.  In  the 
first  room  to  the  left  of  the  stairway  six  men  stood 
about.  They  were  the  guard,  seven  men  including 
the  man  who  was  on  sentry.  They  stood  about  the 
room,  or  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  wall,  with  their 
revolvers  strapped  outside  their  raincoats.  A 
lighted  lantern  was  placed  on  the  floor  in  the  centre 
of  the  room.  The  faces  that  were  touched  by  the 
lantern  light  were  haggard  and  pale.  Farther  down 
on  the  same  side  of  the  passage,  a larger  room  was 
prepared  for  the  inquiry.  A small  table  had  been 
placed  in  it.  A horse  blanket  covered  the  table. 
There  were  several  small  forms  there  and  a little 
“bedside  table”  to  the  right  of  the  main  table,  with  a 
deck  chair  behind  it.  A big  lamp,  turned  on  full, 
hung  from  the  ceiling.  It  lit  up  the  room  so  that 
the  dampness  on  the  walls  glittered.  Two,  tall,  lean 
men  stood  by  the  entrance  to  the  room,  one  on  either 
side  of  it. 

Across  the  passage,  still  farther  away  from  the 
stairway,  the  Rat  Mulligan  was  sitting  on  a form  in 
another  room.  His  three  guards  sat  opposite  him 
on  a form.  They  had  their  revolvers  in  their  hands. 

All  along  the  passage  the  light  of  the  big  lamp 
penetrated.  It  reached  up  three  of  the  steps  of  the 

190 


THE  INFORMER 

stairway.  Beyond  that  and  about  the  roof  of  the 
passage,  there  was  pitch  darkness. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  passage  the  outlines  of  a door 
could  be  seen.  It  was  a heavy  oaken  door,  very  old. 
Formerly  it  was  the  door  of  an  airtight  room  where 
special  wines  were  kept.  These  wines  were  let  down 
into  the  room  from  the  garden.  A trap-door  opened 
off  the  garden  into  the  room.  The  barrels  were  let 
down  through  this  trap-door.  Now,  however,  the 
room  was  used  by  the  Revolutionary  Organization 
for  prisoners.  A square  hole  had  been  made  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  door  to  let  in  air,  so  that  the 
prisoners  would  not  suffocate. 

It  was  three  minutes  past  one.  Three  men, 
dressed  in  long  raincoats  and  soft  hats,  with  masks 
over  their  eyes,  came  down  the  stone  stairway. 
They  were  immediately  challenged  by  the  sentry. 
One  of  them  mumbled  a word  casually.  The  sentry 
saluted.  They  walked  quickly  down  the  passage 
and  entered  the  inquiry  room.  The  sentries  at  the 
door  stood  to  attention  as  they  entered.  They  sat 
down.  One  of  them,  he  who  sat  in  the  middle,  threw 
an  attache  case  on  the  table  and  yawned.  They  all 
lit  cigarettes  and  began  to  talk  in  whispers,  with 
bored,  sleepy  voices,  hardly  opening  their  lips.  They 
were  the  three  members  of  the  Central  Executive 
Committee" who  ha~d  been  appointed  as  judges  for 
tkeThquiryl 


191 


THE  INFORMER 

At  twenty  minutes  past  one  Commandant  Dan 
Gallagher  came  down  the  stairs  with  Mary  McPhil- 
lip.  She  wore  a dark  woolen  overcoat  buttoned  to 
the  throat  and  belted  at  the  waist.  Gallagher  was 
dressed  as  before.  She  looked  around  her  in  a 
frightened  manner.  Gallagher  had  to  urge  her  along 
with  his  right  hand  that  held  her  arm.  When  the 
sentry  uttered  his  challenge  she  stopped  dead, 
gasped,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  lips.  Gallagher 
began  to  whisper  to  reassure  her.  Trembling  and 
clutching  at  his  arm,  she  was  led  by  him  into  the 
inquiry  room.  He  put  her  sitting  on  a form  and 
went  over  to  talk  to  the  members  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  who  had  not  got  to  their  feet  or  taken 
any  notice  whatsoever. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  one,  a hoarse  voice 
was  heard  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  yelling  the  words 
of  a ribald  song,  while  another  voice,  a hushed  one, 
angrily  expostulated.  Then  there  was  a savage 
grunt,  an  oath,  the  sound  of  a heavy  body  crash- 
ing into  something  that  broke  with  a brittle  crack 
and  then  Gypo  came  down  the  stairs.  He  came 
down,  slipping  on  his  back,  with  his  arms  and  legs 
stretched  out,  groping  at  the  air.  He  landed  at  the 
bottom  with  a thud.  He  sat  up  stiffly.  Then  he 
broke  out  into  an  amazing  peal  of  laughter. 

Men  rushed  at  him  from  all  directions  with  their 
revolvers  drawn,  as  quickly  as  if  they  had  been  wait- 
ing a long  time  anxiously  for  his  appearance  in  that 

192 


THE  INFORMER 

strange  manner.  But  when  they  saw  him  sitting 
there  laughing,  with  his  little  tattered  round  hat 
fallen  forward  over  his  forehead,  they  halted  and  put 
their  revolvers  back  into  their  holsters. 

“Hello,  boys,”  cried  Gypo.  “Here  I am.  What 
are  ye  lookin’  at?  I’ll  fight  any  six  men  that  ever 
walked  this  earth.  Who’s  first?” 

He  jerked  himself  to  his  feet  with  one  sudden 
forward  movement,  by  drawing  up  one  heel  under 
him.  He  stood  up,  towering  suddenly  over  those 
about  him.  They  drew  back.  Mulholland,  who  at 
that  moment  was  limping  down  the  stairs  with  his 
hand  to  his  right  eye,  sidestepped  quickly  with  fright 
as  Gypo  stood  up.  He  fell  headlong  past  Gypo’s 
right  shoulder  into  the  arms  of  two  men  who  reached 
out  to  receive  him.  Then  Gallagher  pushed  his  way 
to  the  front. 

“What’s  the  matter  here?”  he  cried  sharply.  “To 
your  posts,  men,  quickly.  Well,  Gypo?  What’s 
troubling  you  now?” 

Gypo  clicked  his  heels  with  a loud  noise  and 
saluted.  He  staggered  slightly  as  he  saluted.  His 
face,  wild  with  drunkenness,  moved  spasmodically, 
but  he  remained  silent.  He  had  not  put  on  his 
muffler  on  leaving  the  brothel.  His  brown  neck  was 
bare,  the  muscles  standing  out  like  ridges  on  a 
mountainside.  Then  he  jerked  his  hat  back  into 
its  correct  position  and  shuffled  his  feet.  He  broke 
into  a low,  thick  laugh.  He  spoke. 

193 


THE  INFORMER 


“You  an’  me,  Commandant,”  he  said  with  a fool- 
ish grin.  “What  ho!  We’ll  put  ’em  all  on  the  run. 
What  d’ye  say?” 

Gallagher  had  been  looking  steadily  at  Gypo  all 
the  time  without  a single  movement  in  his  face.  He 
turned  away  in  silence  and  addressed  Mulholland. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  your  eye,  Bartly?”  he 
said. 

“Oh!  he  just  came  in  me  way,”  interrupted  Gypo 
taking  a pace  forward  and  patting  Gallagher  fami- 
liarly on  the  shoulder.  “He  came  in  me  way — uh — 
an’  I hit  him  with  the  back  o’  me  hand.  That’s  all, 
upon  me  soul.  He’ll  be  all  right  again  with  a bit  o’ 
beefsteak.  Don’t  worry  yersel’  about  him,  Com- 
mandant.” 

Gallagher  drew  away  with  an  irritated  gesture  and 
walked  back  to  the  inquiry  room.  Mulholland 
looked  at  Gypo  with  savage  hatred  in  his  eyes. 
Gypo  looked  around  him  arrogantly  with  his  chest 
swelled  out. 

“Nolan,”  called  out  Gallagher  from  the  doorway 
of  the  inquiry  room,  “get  into  that  room  there  across 
the  passage.  Third  on  your  right.  That’s  it. 
Wait  there  until  you  are  wanted.  See?” 

“All  right,  Commandant.  I see  it.  I — uh — 
damn  that  wall.  Stand  outa  me  way,  will  ye?” 

Gypo  stalked  down  the  passage,  slightly  unsteady 
on  his  feet  and  breathing  heavily.  He  brought  up 
suddenly  against  the  wall  again  and  laughed  in  his 

194 


THE  INFORMER 

throat  with  his  mouth  shut.  Then  he  headed 
straight  for  the  room  where  the  Rat  Mulligan  was 
sitting  with  his  guard.  When  he  had  entered  that 
room  Gallagher  beckoned  to  Mulholland.  Mulhol- 
land  came  up.  They  both  disappeared  into  the  in- 
quiry room.  The  sentries  came  to  the  doorway. 
They  stood  at  ease  across  the  doorway,  facing  the 
passage,  with  their  drawn  revolvers  in  their  hands. 
“The  preliminary  investigation”  had  begun: 

Gypo  subsided  on  to  a chair  beside  the  Rat  Mulli- 
gan. He  sat  for  several  moments  with  a hand  on 
each  knee,  staring  intently  at  the  ground  in  front 
of  him,  breathing  through  his  nose  and  twitching 
his  eyebrows  that  were  like  snouts.  Then  he  raised 
his  head  and  looked  about  him.  He  examined  each 
of  the  armed  men  and  nodded  to  each  as  he  recog- 
nized him.  They  ail  nodded  in  return,  but  in  a 
sour  manner.  Then  he  looked  towards  the  huddled 
form  of  the  Rat  Mulligan  and  he  screwed  up  his 
face  in  perplexity.  He  scratched  his  skull.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  beat  it,  in  a confused  way, 
against  his  trousers  leg,  as  if  he  were  dusting  it. 
Then  he  put  it  on  his  head  again.  He  reached  out 
his  right  hand  as  if  to  touch  Mulligan’s  shoulder, 
but  when  the  hand  was  within  an  inch  of  Mulligan’s 
shoulder,  he  jerked  it  back  suddenly.  Then  he 
jumped  to  his  feet  with  an  oath  and  stood  facing 
Mulligan  with  his  chest  heaving. 

“Mulligan,”  he  whispered  thickly,  but  with  great 
195 


THE  INFORMER 

force.  “Hey,  Rat!  What  ye  doin’  here?  Hey, 
Mulligan!” 

Mulligan  never  moved  for  two  seconds.  He  sat 
on  his  chair,  with  his  flat  feet  wide  apart  and  his 
knees  together,  with  his  upturned  palms  resting  on 
his  knees  and  his  head  resting  on  his  palms.  His 
little  emaciated  body  was  covered  with  a heavy 
black  overcoat,  that  hung  about  him  unbuttoned, 
with  its  ends  trailing  on  the  floor.  His  hat  lay  on 
the  ground  beside  him  where  it  had  fallen  unheeded 
from  his  skull.  His  shaggy  black  hair  was  tousled 
and  damp.  Then  he  slowly  raised  his  head  to  look 
at  Gypo.  His  face  was  yellow  and  hollow  cheeked, 
with  great  sorrowful  dark  eyes  and  a large  mouth 
filled  with  two  perfect  rows  of  yellow  teeth.  His 
mouth  was  wide  open.  His  eyes  were  staring  and 
bloodshot.  His  whole  body,  ravaged  by  consump- 
tion, was  terrible  to  behold.  Gypo  gasped,  looking 
at  it.  A look  of  terror  came  into  his  little  eyes. 

“Rat,”  he  whispered,  “what  brings  ye  here?  Man 
alive,  why  aren’t  ye  in  yer  bed?  This  is  no  hour  for 
a sick  man  to  be  out.” 

The  Rat  stared  at  Gypo  aimlessly  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  him  and  could  not  see  him.  Then,  slowly,  his 
head  subsided  once  more  on  to  his  palms.  He 
shivered  and  sat  still. 

Gypo  came  up  to  him  softly.  He  stooped  down 
and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  as  if  to  console 
him  or  to  sympathize  with  him.  But  as  soon  as  his 

196 


THE  INFORMER 

hand  touched  Mulligan  he  drew  back  with  an  oath. 
Through  his  drunken  brain  the  whole  memory  of 
the  evening’s  proceedings  rushed  back  under  the 
influence  of  that  touch.  He  remembered  distinctly 
himself  in  the  public-house,  denouncing  the  Rat 
Mulligan  to  Gallagher,  as  the  man  who  had  informed 
against  McPhillip. 

He  looked  about  him  suspiciously  at  the  armed 
men.  Their  eyes  were  cast  about  the  room  indis- 
criminately, with  the  habitual  bored  look  of  men 
under  discipline.  They  were  taking  absolutely  no 
interest  in  Gypo  or  in  the  Rat  Mulligan.  Gypo 
sat  down  again.  He  took  his  head  between  his 
hands.  He  crushed  his  skull  with  all  his  might  in  a 
great  effort  to  regain  control  of  his  faculties. 

For  three  minutes  he  sat  that  way,  with  all  his 
strength  concentrated  in  the  effort  to  conquer  his 
drunkenness.  He  was  barely  conscious  of  the  effort 
he  was  making.  It  was  instinct  that  warned  him  of 
the  dangers  that  lay  ahead  of  him,  instinct  aroused 
by  the  contact  with  Mulligan’s  body.  His  drunken- 
ness resisted  fiercely.  Continual  waves  of  reckless 
delirium  surged  through  his  body,  rising  up  from 
his  chest  to  his  head,  with  the  spontaneous  action 
of  sea  waves  swelling  up  the  side  of  an  abrupt  prec- 
ipice. His  head  hummed  and  swayed.  His  eyes 
blinked.  His  tongue  wagged  loose  and  wanted  to 
talk  and  sing  and  laugh.  An  unaccountable  joy 
permeated  him,  a joy  that  did  not  originate  in  his 

197 


THE  INFORMER 

actual  self  but  in  some  strange  being  that  had  come 
to  lodge  in  him  temporarily.  He  could  contemplate 
that  new  strange  being  with  savage  hatred  as  he 
pressed  his  hands  against  his  skull.  That  being  was 
an  enemy  of  his.  He  must  conquer  him. 

At  last  he  felt  his  drunkenness  weakening,  gradu- 
ally, like  the  lessening  of  a pain  at  night.  It  did  not 
disappear  but  its  effects  changed.  Instead  of  feel- 
ing reckless  and  hilarious,  he  began  to  feel  cunning, 
careful,  gloomy,  defiant,  recklessly  strong.  His 
head  cooled  and  steadied.  It  seemed  to  have  be- 
come suddenly  walled  with  steel,  so  that  he  almost 
experienced  a physical  pain  from  the  pressure  of  his 
skull  against  the  skin  on  his  forehead.  But  he  took 
away  his  hands  from  his  forehead  and  he  found  that 
the  pain  vanished.  His  teeth  set.  His  face  as- 
sumed a look  of  stony  apathy,  the  lips  hanging 
flabbily,  the  cheeks  loose,  the  eyes  vacant.  All  the 
muscles  of  his  body  went  loose,  with  the  looseness 
of  the  athlete,  who  is  standing  at  ease,  but  ready  to 
plunge  off  somewhere  like  an  arrow. 

In  response  to  this  change,  as  it  were  in  his  person- 
ality, he  got  to  his  feet  in  a dignified,  calculated, 
imperious  manner.  He  cleared  his  throat.  He  held 
out  his  right  hand.  He  spoke. 

“Listen,  men,”  he  said.  “I  had  a drop  taken 
when  I came  in  here.  I didn’t  know  what  I was 
doin’.  I just  remembered  now  who  I was  talkin’ 

198 


I 

THE  INFORMER 

to  an’  it  nearly  knocked  me  dead.  Look  at  him.” 
He  pointed  a thick,  short,  hairy  forefinger  at  Mul- 
ligan. “He  wouldn’t  speak  to  me.  He’s  afraid  to 
look  at  me.  I know  why.  It’s  him  that  informed 
on  Frankie  McPhillip  an’  he  knows  that  I saw 
him.” 

“It’s  a lie,”  screamed  Mulligan,  suddenly  starting 
up  and  spreading  out  his  hands  and  feet,  downwards 
and  outwards,  as  if  he  were  resting  exhausted  after 
a race.  His  face  was  distorted  with  fear,  amazement 
and  rage.  “It’s  a lie,  boys.  It’s  a lie  I tell  yez. 
Before  the  Blessed  Mother  of  the  Infant  Jesus  I 
swear  on  me  knees  that  I never  left  the  house  to-day 
except  to  go  to  the  chapel  to  say  me  prayers.” 

“Ha!  Me  fine  boyo!”  cried  Gypo  excitedly. 
“Will  ye  listen  to  his  oaths?  It’s  easy  work  for  an 
informer  swearin’  oaths.” 

“Never — ” began  Mulligan  again.  But  he  was 
cut  short  by  two  of  the  armed  men  seizing  him  by  the 
arms,  forcing  him  back  to  his  seat  and  putting  a 
handkerchief  over  his  mouth. 

At  the  same  time  Gallagher  rushed  out  of  the 
inquiry  room  and  across  the  passage  with  his  pistol 
in  his  hand.  His  sallow,  lean  face  was  aflame  with 
anger.  His  eyes  sparkled  like  points  of  fire.  He 
looked  at  Gypo  for  a fleeting  moment.  It  was  no 
longer  the  cold,  contemptuous,  patronizing  look  with 
which  he  had  regarded  him  in  the  public-house. 

199 


THE  INFORMER 

It  was  a look  of  fierce,  relentless  hatred.  “The  pre- 
liminary investigation”  had  convinced  him  of  some- 
thing. 

Gypo,  on  the  other  hand,  looked  at  Gallagher  in 
a friendly,  intimate,  confident  manner. 

“Here  he  is,”  he  said,  pointing  at  the  convulsing 
body  of  Mulligan.  “He  knows  it’s  all  up  with  him 
already.  He  went  into  fits  when  I taxed  him  with 
it.  So  he  did.” 

Then  he  opened  his  mouth  and  gave  voice  to  a 
hoarse  laugh. 

Gallagher  smiled  faintly  into  Gypo’s  eyes.  There 
was  something  diabolic  in  the  smile.  It  was  so  in- 
human. 

“Come  on,  you  two  witnesses,”  he  said  icily. 
“You,  Nolan,  and  you,  Mulligan.  You  are  wanted 
at  the  inquiry  now.  Lead  them  in,  two  of  you.” 

Gypo  walked  across  the  passage  jauntily,  swing- 
ing his  shoulders,  with  his  chest  thrown  out  with  his 
head  in  the  air.  Mulligan  had  to  be  carried  across. 
He  sobbed  all  the  way  fitfully.  The  two  sentries 
with  drawn  revolvers  again  took  up  their  position 
in  the  doorway.  Now,  however,  they  had  their 
backs  to  the  passage.  They  faced  the  two  witnesses. 
The  two  witnesses  were  seated  on  a small  form  in 
front  of  the  larger  table.  They  sat  side  by  side. 
The  two  armed  men  who  had  conducted  them  into 
the  room  stood  close  behind  them.  The  three 
judges  sat  in  front  of  Gypo  and  of  Mulligan  at  the 

200 


THE  INFORMER 

large  table.  Gallagher  sat  at  the  little  table  to  the 
right,  with  Mulholland  standing  a little  to  his  rear, 
peering  over  his  shoulder  at  what  he  was  reading. 
To  the  right  of  the  judges  Mary  McPhillip  sat  on  a 
form  alone. 

There  was  a deadly  silence  for  several  moments. 
Drops  of  water,  one  after  another,  in  irregular  suc- 
cession, could  be  heard  falling  from  the  stone  roof 
to  the  stone  floor,  near  the  walls.  Then  the  centre 
judge  spoke  in  a bored,  drawling  voice. 

“Take  Peter  Mulligan’s  statement,  comrade 
Gallagher,”  he  said. 

As  soon  as  Mulligan  heard  his  name  mentioned  he 
tried  to  jump  to  his  feet,  but  the  man  standing 
behind  him  held  him  down.  At  the  same  time  Gypo 
put  his  hand  on  Mulligan’s  thigh  and  made  a threat- 
ening gesture  with  his  head. 

“Keep  quiet,  will  ye?  Ye  rat!”  he  growled. 

“Peter  Mulligan,”  said  Gallagher,  “give  an  ac- 
count of  your  whereabouts  from  noon  to-day  until 
midnight  when  you  were  brought  in  here.” 

Mulligan  looked  at  Gallagher  for  some  time  be- 
fore replying.  He  was  obviously  trying  to  speak. 
His  lips  moved.  But  terror  held  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  against  his  upper  teeth.  He  could  only  jab- 
ber inaudibly.  Then  at  last  the  tongue  sprang  loose 
and  the  words  rushed  out  in  a flood,  incoherent,  al- 
most inarticulate,  like  the  barking  of  a dog.  Then 
he  gasped.  He  paused.  When  he  continued,  his 

201 


THE  INFORMER 


speech  was  regular  and  almost  calm.  He  had  be- 
come possessed  of  that  meaningless  courage  that 
comes  to  nervous  and  timorous  people,  when  they 
find  themselves  in  a position  where  it  is  useless  to  be 
careful,  or  to  exercise  any  control  over  themselves. 

“What’s  the  meaning  of  this  treatment  of  a 
working-man?”  he  cried.  “By  you  men_that  are 
supposed  to  be  out  for  the  freedom  of  the  working 
class.  Can  ye  find  no  better  man  to  arrest  an’  carry 
off  in  the  middle  o’  the  night  than  me,  that’s  dyin’ 
on  me  feet  o’  consumption?  An’  havin’,  still  an’ 
all,  to  work  me  hands  off  at  me  trade,  tailorin’  an’ 
stitchin’  in  a basement,  that’s  more  like  the  cave  of 

a wild  animal  than  a room.  Me  that’s ” 

“Mulligan,”  interrupted  Gallagher  impassively 
but  sharply,  “I  asked  you  for  a statement  of  your 
whereabouts,  between  noon  to-day  and  midnight  to- 
night. You  better  be  quick  about  your  statement. 
We  have  no  time  to  waste.” 

Suddenly  Mulligan’s  short-lived  arrogance  van- 
ished. He  looked  around  him  on  all  sides  patheti- 
cally. He  saw  only  stern,  unsympathetic  faces. 
He  sighed  and  dug  his  hands  deep  into  his  overcoat 
pockets.  Then  he  drew  the  pockets  closely  about 
his  body  and  crouched  low  on  his  seat.  He  began 
to  speak  in  a meek,  timorous  voice. 

“Lemme  see,”  he  said,  looking  at  the  ground.  “At 
noon  to-day,  or  let  us  say  dinner  time,  if  it’s  the  same 
to  you,  I was  lyin’  in  me  bed.  I had  a bad  pain  in 

202 


THE  INFORMER 

me  right  side  from  bronchitis  all  the  mornin’  an’  I 
had  to  stay  in  bed  with  it.  At  one  o’clock  about,  the 
old  woman  gev  me  a cup  o’  tay  an’  an  egg.  I re- 
member I couldn’t  ate  the  egg.  Well,  that’s  no  mat- 
ter. I had  to  get  up  then,  on  account  of  a suit  that 
has  to  be  made  for  Mick  Foley  the  carter.  It’s  got 
to  be  finished  be  Friday.  His  daughter  is  gettin’ 
married  next  Monday  to ” 

“Don’t  mind  Foley’s  daughter,”  snapped  Galla- 
gher. “What  had  she  got  to  do  with  your  move- 
ments? Tell  us  about  yourself.” 

Mulligan  began  to  cough  furiously.  His  body 
shook  and  he  almost  fell  off  the  form.  Then  the  fit 
subsided.  He  sat  shivering  and  unable  to  speak. 

“Come  on,  Rat,”  growled  Gypo,  nudging  him  with 
his  elbow  in  the  ribs.  “Ye  might  as  well  come  out 
with  it  now  as  another  time.  Go  ahead  an’  tell  ’em 
all  about  it.” 

Mulligan  looked  at  Gypo.  His  lips  trembled. 
His  great  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears.  The  terrific, 
massive  countenance  of  Gypo,  cunning  with  drunk- 
enness, did  not  inspire  him  at  that  moment  with  fear. 
For  some  peculiar  reason,  his  poor,  shattered  soul 
had  gathered  to  itself  just  then  a great  courage.  His 
withered  face  shone  with  a spiritual  power.  He 
spoke  softly,  tenderly,  with  pity. 

“It’s  not  for  me  to  condemn  ye,”  he  said;  “maybe 
yer  not  responsible.” 

“Blast  ye,”  yelled  Gypo,  jumping  to  his  feet. 

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THE  INFORMER 

“What  does  he  mean,  Commandant  Gallagher,  about 
me  not  bein’  res-re-prosible?  What  does  he  mean 
by  it?  I want  to  know  what  he’s  drivin’  at.” 

“Sit  down,  Nolan,”  cried  Gallagher.  “Sit  down 
immediately  and  keep  quiet.  Sit  down,  I say.” 

Gypo  sat  down  with  a clutter.  He  stared  at  Gal- 
lagher, with  the  strange,  bewildered  look  of  a dog 
that  has  been  reprimanded  by  his  master  and  is 
wondering  why  he  has  been  reprimanded.  For  the 
first  time  he  realized  that  there  was  a cold,  danger- 
ous ring  in  Gallagher’s  voice.  He  sat  immovable  for 
two  moments,  without  drawing  breath,  meditating  on 
this  hostile  ring  which  he  had  heard  in  Gallagher’s 
voice. 

Unconsciously  he  took  off  his  little,  tattered, 
round,  slouch  hat.  He  pushed  it,  without  looking 
at  it,  into  his  right-hand  trousers  pocket. 

Mulligan  began  again  to  talk. 

“Lemme  see,”  he  said,  “where  was  I?  Oh,  yes. 
I worked  on  till  about  half-past  three  or  maybe  a 
quarter  to  four,  when  Charlie  Corrigan  came  in  an’ 
said  that  his  brother  Dave  had  just  come  outa  jail, 
after  bein’  on  hunger  strike  for  eighteen  days.  Ye 
remember  he  was  thrown  in  on  account  of  the  Slum 
Rents  Agitation.  £He’s  upstairs,’  says  Charlie. 
Well,  I went  up  an’  we  talked  over  a cup  o’  tay  until 
about  six  o’clock.  It  was  just  six  when  I left,  be- 
cause I heard  the  angelus  beginnin’  to  strike  an’  I 
on  me  way  down  the  stairs,  because  I stopped  to 

204 


THE  INFORMER 

cross  mesel’.  Then  I ran  down  home  an’  put  on 
me  overcoat  and  went  out  to  the  chapel.  I’m  makin’ 
the  Stations  o’  the  Cross  for  . . He  stopped  and 
flushed.  . . . “Well,  it’s  no  matter  to  no  man  why 
I’m  makin’  em.” 

“All  right,  then,”  snapped  Gallagher.  “We  don’t 
want  to  know  why  you  are  making  them.  We 
merely  want  facts,  not  superstitions.  You  went  into 
the  chapel  at  six  o’clock,  or  a few  minutes  after- 
wards to  be  precise.  How  far  is  the  chapel  from 
your  house?” 

“Maybe  it’s  a hundred  yards,  maybe  it’s  more. 
If  ye  go  around  the  corner  be  Kane’s  its  less,  but 
be  goin’  the  other  road  around— — 

“Oh,  damn  the  other  road.  Pardon  me,  Miss  Mc- 
Phillip.  Let  us  say  it’s  one  hundred  yards.  You 
arrived  at  the  chapel  then  at  about  three  minutes 
past  six.  That  correct?” 

“Uh  . . . that  ud  be  right  . . . about  that.” 

“Well?  How  long  did  you  stay  there?” 

“I  stayed  there  until  about  half-past  six.  An’ 
then  I stayed  talkin’  outside  the  door  to  Fr.  Conroy 
for  maybe  ten  minutes.  He  wanted  to  know ” 

“Did  you  talk  to  anybody  other  than  the  priest 
you  mention?” 

“I’m  cornin’  to  that.  After  I left  Fr.  Conroy  I 
met  Barney  Kerrigan.” 

“Where?  Near  the  chapel?” 

“Yes.  It  must  have  been  within  fifty  yards  of  it, 
205 


THE  INFORMER 

as  yer  goin’  be  measurements,  although  we 
never ” 

“Just  a moment.  Were  you  ever  a member  of  the 
Revolutionary  Organization?” 

~rrWEat  makes  ye  ask.  that?  Does  any  man  know 
better  than  yersel’  whether  I was  or  not?” 

“Were  you  a member?” 

“Sure  I was.” 

“That’s  better.  Why  did  you  leave  it?” 

“I  left  it,  Commandant  Gallagher,  for  reasons  that 
are  known  to  yersel’  as  well  as  they  are  to  me.” 
His  voice  became  passionate  and  shrill.  “I  left  it 
because  the  only  one  I cared  for  in  this  world,  out- 
side me  old  woman,  that’s  me  sister,  came  to  her 
doom  through  it.  But  it’s  not  for  me  to  judge.  It’s 
not  for  me  . . .” 

“Very  well,”  interrupted  Gallagher.  “You  left 
the  Organization  owing  to  a personal  grievance. 
Was  that  grievance  against  any  particular  member 
of  the  Organization?” 

“I  bear  no  fellow-man  a grudge,”  cried  Mulligan 
solemnly. 

“You  had  no  grievance  against  Fraticis  Joseph 
McPhillip?” 

“Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul,”  cried  Mulligan, 
crossing  himself  with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  “I 
hope  his  sorrows  are  over  him.”  He  turned  to  Miss 
McPhillip.  “I  swear  on  me  immortal  soul,  Miss 
McPhillip,  that  I bore  no  grudge  agin  yer  brother.” 

206 


THE  INFORMER 

“All  right,”  said  Gallagher.  “Well.  Tell  us 
what  you  did  after  leaving  Barney  Kerrigan.” 

“I  went  back  to  the  house  after  that.  I did  an- 
other bit  o’  work  until  about  eight  o’clock.  I didn’t 
do  much  because  fellahs  kept  cornin’  in  an’  out  an’ 
me  eyes  are  not  as  good  as  they  used  to  be  an’  the 
gas  now  is  a disgrace  to  the  city.  But  anyhow,  I 
finished  the  waistcoat.  Then  I went  upstairs  to 
Jim  Daly’s  room  on  the  third  floor.  Poor  man,  he’s 
sick  this  three  years  with  bad  kidneys.  Only  for  a 
pension  he  has  outa  the  British  Navy,  there’s  no 
knowin’  what  ud  happen  to  him,  an’  he  havin’  no  one 
to  look  after  him  but  himself,  an’  he  that  delicate 
We  had  a smoke  an’  a talk  until  about  ten  o’clock. 
Then  I came  down  again.  The  old  woman  had  just 
come  in,  so  we  had  another  cup  o’  tay  an’  a herring. 
Then  I sat  be  the  fire  readin’  a newspaper  until 
about  half-past  eleven.  Then  I began  to  pouch 
about  makin’  ready  to  go  to  bed,  when  three  men  un- 
der Tommy  Connor  came  in  an’  put  a mask  over  me 
face  an’  bundled  me  into  a car,  without  by  yer  leave, 
as  if  I was  a criminal.  That’s  all.” 

There  was  a slight  pause.  Everybody  sighed  for 
some  reason. 

“Very  good,  Mulligan,”  said  Gallagher.  “That 
will  do.” 

He  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  judges’  table. 
The  four  of  them  talked  for  about  two  minutes. 
The  centre  judge  read  from  a paper  in  a mumbling 

207 


THE  INFORMER 

voice.  Another  judge  took  notes,  scratching  loudly 
with  his  pen.  There  was  a pause.  Then  another 
discussion  in  whispers  began.  Then  Gallagher  came 
back  to  his  seat. 

“Nolan,”  he  said,  quite  suddenly,  “repeat  the 
statement  concerning  Peter  Mulligan  that  you  made 
to  me  in  Ryan’s  public-house  in  Titt  Street  at  ten- 
forty-five  this  night.” 

“Yes,  Commandant,”  said  Gypo  immediately. 

He  cleared  his  throat  aggressively  and  rattled  off 
the  story  about  his  having  seen  Mulligan  track 
Francis  Joseph  McPhillip  out  of  the  Dunboy  Lodg- 
ing House.  He  spoke  in  a clear,  loud  and  distinct 
voice,  making  arrogant  gestures  and  looking  straight 
into  Gallagher’s  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

Mulligan  kept  trembling  while  Gypo  spoke.  He 
seemed  all  the  time  trying  to  interrupt,  but  although 
his  lips  twitched  and  his  hands  trembled  he  neither 
moved  nor  spoke. 

Gypo  finished  speaking.  His  loud,  strong  voice 
died  out,  leaving  a sudden  silence  behind  it.  There 
was  another  slight  pause. 

“What  time  exactly  did  you  see  Mulligan  leave  the 
lodging-house?”  said  Gallagher. 

“Just  half-past  six,”  replied  Gypo  immediately. 
“I  know  because  I looked  at  the  clock  in  the 
hall.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Gallagher.  “That  will  do  you, 
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THE  INFORMER 

Nolan.  Miss  McPhillip,  what  time  did  your  brother 
arrive  at  your  father’s  house?” 

“He  arrived  at  ten  minutes  to  seven,”  said  Mary, 
after  a little  pause,  during  which  she  blushed  slightly, 
glanced  at  Gallagher  and  then  looked  at  the  ground. 
“It  might  be  a little  earlier  than  that,  but  not  more 
than  a minute  or  so.  I had  just  come  in  from  busi- 
ness.” 

“Did  he  say  anything  about  being  followed  when 
he  came?” 

“No.  On  the  contrary,  he  said  that  he  was  certain 
that  he  was  not  noticed  since  he  came  into  town  at 
half-past  five.  Mother  was  very  worried  about  his 
being  in  town,  and  she  wanted  to  get  him  away  im- 
mediately, but  he  was  so  confident  about  being  safe 
that  she  thought  it  was  all  right  his  staying  for  the 
night.  He  said  he  met  Nolan  at  the  lodging-house. 
That  was  the  only  person  he  spoke  to,  he  said.  He 
came  by  back  streets  after  leaving  the  lodging-house. 
He  never  stopped  anywhere  and  he  spoke  to  nobody. 
He  crossed  the  river  at  the  Metal  Bridge.  It  was 
pitch-black  at  that  time  on  account  of  the  rain  and 
the  fog.  Anybody  that  knew  Frankie’s  way  of  going 
along,  listening  to  every  sound,  with  ears  as  sharp 
as  a fox,  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  followed 
without  his  knowing  it.  He  came  in  suddenly  by 
the  back  entrance  through  the  yard.  We  thought  it 
was  his  ghost,”  she  said  with  a little  shiver  of  remem- 

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THE  INFORMER 

brance.  She  stopped  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  face. 

“Thank  you,  Miss  McPhillip,”  said  Gallagher. 
“Barney  Kerrigan  out  there?” 

“Kerrigan  there?” 

“Kerrigan?” 

“Yes.  I’m  coming,”  came  a voice  from  along  the 
passage  somewhere. 

A tall  man,  wearing  a black  slouch  hat  and  a new, 
though  shabby,  grey  overcoat  with  a velvet  collar, 
came  into  the  room.  He  had  a revolver  strapped 
over  his  overcoat  at  the  waist.  He  saluted  and  stood 
to  attention. 

“Did  you  meet  Peter  Mulligan  at  six-thirty  this 
evening?”  said  Gallagher. 

“Yes,  Commandant,”  replied  Kerrigan.  “I  saw 
him  just  about  that  time  cornin’  down  the  street. 
He  stopped  me  to  know  did  I know  anythin’  for  the 
Grand  National.” 

“Very  well.  You  are  quite  sure  about  the  time?” 

“Well,  I couldn’t  give  ye  the  exact  second,  but  it 
couldn’t  be  more  than  a minute  one  way  or  the  other. 
I knocked  off  work  at  six  an’  it  takes  me  always  just 
about  twenty  minutes  to  walk  from  the  quays  as  far 
as  Farelly’s.  Well,  I had  a pint  in  Farelly’s  an’  I 
stopped  for  a few.minutes  to  talk  to  the  boys,  an’  then 
when  I came  out  I met  Peter  Mulligan.  Just  about 
half-past  six  I’d  say  it  was.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Gallagher,  “return  to  your  post. 

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THE  INFORMER 

Peter  Mulligan,  you  can  go  now.  You  will  be  taken 
home  in  the  car  that  brought  you  here  and  we’ll  see 
you  right  for  any  inconvenience  that  was  caused  to 
you.”  He  walked  over  to  the  judges  and  whispered 
something  hurriedly.  They  all  nodded  and  put  their 
hands  in  their  pockets.  “One  moment,  Mulligan,” 
he  called.  They  all  gave  him  money.  He  added 
some  from  his  own  pocket.  He  came  over  to  Mulli- 
gan and  handed  him  a fistful  of  silver.  “For  the 
present  this  might  help  you.  I’ll  see  what  can  be 
done  for  you  later  on.  I’ll  bring  your  case  up  before 
the  Relief  Committee.  Good-night,  Comrade.” 

Mulligan  took  the  money  with  bowed  head.  He 
got  up  and  moved  to  the  door  hurriedly  without  say- 
ing a word,  with  his  hat  crushed  in  his  two  hands 
and  his  overcoat  flapping  behind  him.  He  disap- 
peared out  the  door,  head  first,  stooping,  hauling  his 
two  flat  feet  after  him  as  if  he  were  dragging  them 
against  their  will.  Then,  with  a hard,  biting  cough 
he  disappeared. 

The  sentries  stood  again  across  the  door.  Galla- 
gher walked  slowly  back  to  his  table.  He  sat  down. 
There  was  a deadly  silence. 

The  silence  lasted  only  about  twelve  seconds. 
During  this  pause  Gallagher  took  out  a notebook  and 
turned  over  the  pages,  while  Mulholland  bent  over 
his  shoulder  whispering  something,  and  the  three 
judges  murmured  with  their  heads  close  together. 
But  to  Gypo  these  twelve  seconds  were  as  long  as 

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THE  INFORMER 

twelve  years  to  a man  stricken  with  a painful  and 
incurable  disease.  A succession  of  terrors  flitted 
through  his  mind.  They  were  not  ideas  or  thoughts, 
but  almost  tangible  terrors  that  seemed  to  materialize 
in  his  brain  as  the  result  of  the  reasoning  of  some 
foreign  being.  His  cunning  and  his  assurance  were 
gripped  suddenly  by  that  amazing  foreigner  and 
hurled  out  of  him,  clean  out  of  him  into  oblivion, 
like  two  bullets  fired  through  the  air. 

Ha!  They  were  hurled  out  of  him  by  the  amazing 
fact  of  Mulligan’s  disappearance,  free,  with  money 
in  his  pocket  given  to  him  by  Gallagher.  They  had 
given  him  money.  They  had  called  him  comrade. 
They  had  promised  to  bring  his  case  up  before  the 
Relief  Committee.  They  sent  him  away  free.  He 
had  gone.  . . . Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph!  What  was 
the  meaning  of  it? 

Then  suddenly,  as  he  sat  there,  bolt  upright  on  his 
seat,  massive,  those  unspeakable  terrors  crowded  into 
his  mind.  They  came  ready-made,  fully  matured, 
nauseating  like  bilious  attacks,  sharp  and  biting  like 
bayonet  wounds,  heavy  and  ponderous  like  palpita- 
tions of  the  heart.  They  came,  one,  two,  three,  four 
. . . scores  of  them,  lining  up  in  his  brain,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  in  a mass,  standing  there  solidly  and 
then  immediately  disappearing  like  ghosts  without  a 
sound  and  giving  place  to  others.  There  was  a mass 
of  them  but  each  one  was  distinct.  Each  had  its 
own  peculiar  silent  screech.  Each  had  its  own  pecu- 

212 


THE  INFORMER 

liar  demoniac  grin.  Each  had  its  own  peculiar  . . . 
damn  them  all!  The  curse  of  them  was  that  he  did 
not  know  what  they  were.  It  seemed  that  his  person- 
ality was  bound  in  chains  and  he  was  unable  to 
grapple  with  the  cursed  things.  He  must  sit  still, 
bolt  upright  on  his  wooden  form,  and  permit  them  to 
stand  there  unchallenged  in  his  brain.  He  was  help- 
less. A cold  sweat  came  out  through  every  pore  of 
his  body. 

Four  seconds  passed.  Then  his  mind  began  to 
grope  about  among  the  terrors,  timorously,  like  a 
snail  that  has  been  touched  and  has  gone  into  his 
shell  feigning  death  and  has  come  out  again  touching 
blades  of  grass  suspiciously  and  wriggling  its  horns. 
Gypo  opened  his  nostrils  and  his  mouth.  He  drew 
in  a deep  breath  through  both  organs  simultaneously. 
The  cold  sweat  suddenly  became  warm.  His  blood 
flooded  his  head  with  a surging  movement.  He  be- 
came ferocious.  At  first  his  eyes  narrowed  and  his 
eyebrows  that  were  like  snouts  bent  down.  Then  his 
eyes  opened  wide  and  his  eyebrows  lifted,  like  guns 
that  are  elevated  in  order  to  train  them  on  a target. 
His  lower  lip  dropped.  His  mind  began  to  work 
methodically.  The  terrors  vanished  out  of  it  and 
gave  place  to  an  iron  determination  to  fight  to  the 
bitter  end. 

With  his  blood  maddened  by  alcohol,  he  became 
conscious  of  the  vast  strength  in  his  body.  Fie  al- 
most experienced  a feeling  of  happiness  at  this  oppor- 

213 


THE  INFORMER 

tunity  for  using  it.  It  was  that  savage  joy  that  is 
always  present  in  the  Irish  soul  in  time  of  danger, 
the  great  fighting  spirit  of  our  race,  born  of  the  mists 
and  the  mountains  and  the  gurgling  torrents  and  the 
endless  clamour  of  the  sea. 

He  looked  around  him  measuring  those  against 
whom  he  had  to  fight.  To  his  left  he  saw  Mary 
McPhillip  sitting.  She  had  her  hands  in  her  lap. 
She  was  leaning  forward  slightly,  with  a nervous 
expectant  look  in  her  eyes,  looking  at  Gallagher. 
She  cast  a terrified  glance,  occasionally,  towards 
Gypo,  but  her  eyes  always  came  back  to  Gallagher’s 
face  as  if  they  were  fascinated  by  it.  It  was  obvious 
that  she  was  terrified  and  that  her  mind  was  trying 
to  keep  itself  fixed  on  the  object  of  the  prayers  which 
her  moving  lips  were  uttering.  Gypo  saw  the  terror 
in  her  quivering  face  and  knew  that  he  had  nothing 
to  fear  from  her.  Then  he  looked  at  the  three 
judges.  He  knew  those  masked  men.  They  were 
merely  puppets,  politicians,  figure-heads  who  would 
do  Gallagher’s  bidding,  afraid  to  contradict  him. 
Ha!  Gallagher  was  the  man  he  had  to  fight.  Galla- 
gher and  that  rat  Mulholland.  He  saw  them  over 
by  the  little  table  with  their  heads  together.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  them. 

Feverishly  he  set  himself  to  form  a plan,  not  that 
he  hoped  anything  at  this  hour  from  the  formation  of 
a plan,  but  merely  because  making  a plan  was  an  end 
in  itself  to  his  peculiar  reason.  But  he  could  not 

214 


THE  INFORMER 

even  think  of  a plan.  All  his  energies  were  concen- 
trated on  maintaining  his  anger  at  fever  heat.  He 
struggled  feebly  with  threads  of  ideas  and  then 
dropped  them  hopelessly.  He  doubled  up  his  fists 
and  held  them,  knuckles  downwards,  one  on  each 
hip.  The  two  armed  men  who  stood  behind  him, 
saw  his  back  muscles  rise  and  strain  against  his  dun- 
garee jacket. 

Then  the  silence  broke.  Gallagher  got  up  with  his 
open  notebook  in  his  hand.  He  walked  over  to  the 
judges’  table.  He  placed  the  notebook  in  front  of 
the  judges,  pointing  out  something  with  his  finger. 
The  centre  judge  nodded.  Gallagher  walked  back 
again  to  his  table  and  sat  down.  Gypo  followed 
every  movement  with  frenzied  excitement.  He 
seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  jumping  to  his  feet  and 
rushing  at  Gallagher.  The  two  sentries  in  the  door- 
way and  the  two  armed  men  standing  behind  Gypo’s 
back  slipped  their  fingers  over  their  revolver  trig- 
gers. They  leaned  forward  slightly.  There  was  a 
tense  moment.  Then  Gallagher  looked  at  Gypo  and 
began  to  speak  sharply,  in  a low,  restrained  voice. 

“Now  Gypo,”  he  began,  “tell  us  how  you  spent 
your  time  from  six  o’clock  this  evening  until  you 
came  in  here  at  half-past  one.  Hurry  up.  Don’t 
waste  any  time.  We  are  in  a hurry.” 

Gypo’s  eyes  almost  shut.  Then  his  face  seemed 
to  swell.  His  mouth  contorted. 

“What’s  it  got  to  do  with  you  where  I ben?”  he 
215 


THE  INFORMER 


thundered  in  a queer,  hollow  voice.  It  seemed  his 
mouth  had  gone  dry. 

“You  never  know,”  said  Gallagher  carelessly.  “It 
might  be  interesting  for  us  to  know.  Don’t  you  feel 
like  telling  us  how  you’ve  been  amusing  yourself  from 
the  time  you  met  Francis  Joseph  McPhillip  at  six 
o’clock  in  the  Dunboy  Lodging  House  until  you 
came  in  here?” 

“An’  supposin’  I don’t  tell  ye,  what  are  ye  goin’  to 
do?  Wha’?” 

“Well,  I’m  not  going  to  tell  you  that.  But  we  can 
do  a lot.  You  know  that  yourself,  don’t  you?  You 
have  your  choice  in  the  matter.  You  either  tell  me 
or  I’ll  go  to  the  trouble  of  telling  you  and  the  court 
myself.”  He  paused  for  an  instant  and  then  added: 
“with  the  help  of  Bartly  Mulholland  here.” 

Then  he  stared  at  Gypo  dispassionately,  with  the 
cold  and  indifferent  look  of  a man  examining  a 
statue.  Gypo’s  chest  heaved  in  and  out.  He  had 
not  been  prepared  for  this  point-blank  attack  from 
Gallagher.  He  had  expected  that  Gallagher  would 
adopt  his  usual  tactics  of  friendliness  and  cajolery, 
trusting  to  madden  his  prey  into  letting  some  choice 
important  word  slip  unawares  from  his  lips.  Gypo 
felt  himself  actually  cheated  out  of  his  rights  by  this 
insultingly  crude  and  insolent  attack.  Gallagher  was 
not  even  doing  him  the  honour  of  playing  with  him. 
Then  he  must  know  everything  already.  Did  he? 

The  last  trace  of  his  self-control  left  Gypo.  He 
216 


THE  INFORMER 

abandoned  himself  to  a frenzy  of  passion.  A de- 
lirious wave  of  ferocity  mastered  him.  He  clenched 
his  fists  so  that  the  bones  cracked.  His  right  leg 
went  so  rigid  that  the  boot  rushed  along  the  stone 
floor  with  a harsh  scraping  sound,  until  it  brought 
up  with  a bang  against  the  leg  of  the  form.  There 
it  stayed.  His  knee  was  pointed  and  shivering.  He 
opened  his  mouth  and  yelled,  almost  incoherently,  a 
torrent  of  blasphemous  and  obscene  oaths  at  Galla- 
gher. He  yelled  them  in  an  endless  sentence,  without 
a verb  or  pronoun  or  conjunction.  He  kept  yelling 
until  he  had  to  stop  for  breath. 

When  Gypo  stopped,  Mary  McPhillip’s  sobs  be- 
came audible.  She  was  trembling  violently  and  sob- 
bing. Gallagher  got  up,  walked  past  Gypo  without 
taking  the  slightest  notice  of  him  and  took  Mary  by 
the  arm.  He  led  her  up  to  the  judge’s  table. 

“I  have  no  further  need  of  this  witness,”  he  said, 
“so  I suppose  I may  take  her  into  another  room.” 

The  judges  nodded.  He  led  Mary  out  of  the  room. 
Gypo’s  eyes  followed  him  everywhere.  He  was  star- 
ing wildly  and  he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  power  of 
directing  his  bodily  activities.  He  was  shivering 
spasmodically  in  his  legs.  Gallagher  came  back  into 
the  room  and  sat  down  at  his  table. 

Still  Gypo’s  eyes  were  concentrated  on  Gallagher’s 
face.  His  outburst  had  left  him  completely  empty, 
like  a shaken  sack.  There  was  a pain  at  the  pit  of 
the  stomach.  Mob  orators  know  that  pain,  when 

217 


THE  INFORMER 


they  have  spoken  for  over  an  hour  under  a perfect 
hail  of  frenzied  interruptions.  His  eyes  were  dazed. 
Some  machinal  force  kept  his  eyes  concentrated  on 
Gallagher’s  face.  He  responded  to  every  movement 
of  Gallagher’s  face  in  a half-conscious  way.  Every 
time  Gallagher  moved  a limb  he  felt  a sharp  stab  in 
the  pit  of  the  stomach.  He  was  conscious  of  even 
the  most  minute  movements.  A thing  that  terrified 
him  especially  was  Gallagher’s  chronic  habit  of 
twitching  his  cheeks  by  grinding  his  back  teeth  at 
intervals. 

As  before,  this  agony  lasted  during  a few  moments 
only,  during  the  time  that  Gallagher  was  looking  at 
some  notes  on  his  table,  with  furrowed  forehead. 
But  the  moments  seemed  years,  the  agony  was  so  con- 
centrated. Gallagher  spoke  again. 

Then  again  a strange  change  came  over  Gypo. 
For  as  soon  as  Gallagher  spoke  he  felt  an  instan- 
taneous relief.  He  breathed  deeply.  He  sighed.  A 
delicious  tremor  swept  over  his  body  like  a cool 
breeze  sweeping  the  back  of  a sultry  sea  in  summer. 
His  jaws  set  again.  Gallagher’s  voice  had  a different 
ring  in  it.  It  was  softer.  It  was  friendly.  It  was 
. . . honour  bright  ...  it  was  argumentative. 
Then  there  was  a chance.  . . . There  must  be  a 
chance  yet.  . . .” 

“What  did  you  mean,  Gypo?”  cried  Gallagher. 
“What  did  you  mean  by  telling  us  all  those  lies  about 
the  Rat  Mulligan?  You  should  be  ashamed  of  your- 

218 


THE  INFORMER 

self.  Even  if  you  got  a grudge  against  a man,  that’s 
no  reason  why  you  should  try  to  get  a thing  like  that 
slung  on  to  him.  Good  Lord!  You’re  a funny  man, 
Gypo.  What  put  it  into  your  head  to  tell  me  that 
you  saw  him  this  evening  at  the  Dunboy  Lodging 
House,  when  we  know  very  well  that  he  was  within 
one  hundred  yards  of  his  own  home  at  that  very 
minute,  three  miles  away  or  more?  Were  you  drunk 
or  what?” 

“I  know  I was  drunk,”  cried  Gypo,  responding  joy- 
fully to  this  friendly  overture  from  Gallagher.  His 
anger  vanished.  His  whole  soul  leaned  out  eagerly 
towards  Gallagher,  craving  support.  He  paused  mo- 
mentarily after  uttering  the  first  sentence.  He  re- 
mained silent,  leaning  forward,  looking  at  Gallagher, 
intently,  as  if  he  expected  Gallagher  to  finish  the 
statement  for  him.  But  when  Gallagher’s  thin  lips 
remained  sealed,  he  hurtled  on  excitedly,  as  if  he 
were  stumbling  recklessly  through  dangerous  obsta- 
cles. His  voice  was  uneven  and  flurried.  “But  I’d 
swear  be  Almighty  God  that  it  was  him  I saw  goin’ 
out  the  door  and  runnin’  up  the  lane  after  Frankie. 
An’  if  it  wasn’t  him  it  must  have  been  somebody  else 
like  him,  for  I’d  know  the  cut  of  his  shoulders  any- 
where. I would  if  ye  put  my  head  in  a bag.” 

“You  told  me,”  continued  Gallagher  in  the  same 
friendly  scolding  tone,  “that  you  followed  the  Rat 
across  town  until  you  came  to  . . . Where  was  that 
you  said  you  lost  sight  of  him?  I forgot  now.” 

219 


THE  INFORMER 

Gypo  started  and  stuttered.  Good  Lord,  what  had 
he  said?  He  must  say  the  same  thing  he  had  said 
before.  But  he  could  not  remember  saying  that  he 
followed  the  Rat  across  town.  Did  he  say  it  in  the 
public-house  or  did  he  not.  His  forehead  was  burn- 
ing. The  hammering  at  the  top  of  his  skull  was 
blinding  his  eyes  with  pain.  Almost  unconsciously 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  blurted  out, 
pathetically,  on  a peculiar  high  note,  an  amazingly 
childish  and  hysterical  sentence. 

“Commandant,  I’m  all  mixed  up  an’  I can  remem- 
ber nothin’.” 

It  was  horrid,  that  pitiful,  forlorn  cry  of  pain  and 
of  absolute  despair  coming  from  such  a giant. 

“All  right  then,”  said  Gallagher,  “don’t  worry 
yourself.  We  have  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this 
business,  so  we’ll  just  set  to  work,  the  two  of  us,  and 
maybe  we  can  piece  the  whole  thing  together.  Now 
the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  begin  at  the  end  and 
go  backwards.  We’ll  work  backwards  until  we  come 
to  the  point  where  you  lost  that  man  you  saw  track- 
ing Frankie  McPhillip  out  of  the  Dunboy  Lodging 
House.  In  that  case  we’ll  begin  with  where  you  were 
before  you  came  in  here.  Bartly  Mulholland  tells  us 
that  you  were  at  Aunt  Betty’s,  with  a woman  called 
Connemara  Maggie.  You  must  have  been  with  her, 
because  Bartly  saw  you  with  his  own  eyes  giving  her 
two  pound  notes.  There  were  three  empty  whisky 
bottles  in  the  room.  They  had  been  bought  by  you, 

220 


THE  INFORM  ER 

I suppose.  Well?  A man  is  entitled  to  drink  his 
own  whisky  that  he  has  bought  with  his  own  money, 
I suppose.  That  has  got  nothing  to  do  with  our 
business,  has  it  Gypo?  None  whatsoever.  We 
merely  want  to  trace  that  man  that  tracked  Francis 
Joseph  McPhillip  out  of  the  Dunboy  Lodging  House. 
Well!  What  do  we  find  next?  A friend  of  yours 
called  Katie  Fox,  once  upon  a time  a comrade  of 
ours,  they  are  all  to  the  front  in  this  business,  all 
those  people  that  were  once  comrades  of  ours,  she 
told  Bartly  Mulholland  that  you  gave  three  pounds 
to  an  English  woman  at  Aunt  Betty’s  and  two  pounds 
to  Aunt  Betty  to  pay  a debt  for  this  woman.  You 
wanted  to  send  her  back  to  London.  A kind  of 
Barnardo’s  Home  or  something,  this  Aunt  Betty’s, 
for  stray  women.  Well,  of  course,  that  again  has 
nothing  to  do  with  us.  A man  is  entitled  to  do  what 
he  likes  with  his  own  money.  But.  . . . Good 
Lord,  Gypo,”  he  cried,  striking  the  table  and  burst- 
ing out  into  a strange  hilarious  laugh,  “you  were 
having  a time  of  it.  Where  did  you  get  all  the 
money?  Ha!  Now  don’t  get  excited.  I know  it’s 
no  business  of  mine.  But  if  you’re  going  to  be  taken 
back  into  the  Organization  . . . Well!  There  are 
ugly  rumours  flying  about.  . . . You  know  the  way 
silly  rumours  fly  around  Dublin.  It’s  awful.  But 
the  fact  is,  that  people  are  talking  about  sailors, 
American  sailors,  being  robbed  at  the  back  of  Cas- 
sidy’s public-house.  It’s  only  a rumour,  of  course, 

221 


THE  INFORMER 

and  again,  that  friend  of  yours,  Katie  Fox — shall  we 
call  her  one  of  our  ex-comrades? — she  is  responsible 
for  the  rumour,  according  to  Bartly  Mulholland.  Of 
course,  it’s  obviously  originated  with  her.  She  has 
very  probably  invented  that  story  out  of  spite,  simply 
because  you  went  with  the  other  girl.  Or  . . . Tell 
me,  is  there  any  truth  in  it,  Gypo?  I mean  in  the 
rumour  of  your  having  robbed  a sailor?” 

Gypo  started,  as  if  out  of  a heavy  sleep.  His 
brain  went  “thud,  thud,  thud,”  trying  to  think 
whether  he  should  say  “yes,”  or  “no.”  If  he  said 
“yes,”  would  he  be  caught  in  the  act  of  telling  a lie? 
If  he  said  “no,”  would  he  be  able  to  find  any  other 
means  of  explaining  how  he  got  the  money?  Several 
other  questions  and  problems  also  crowded  into  his 
mind  simultaneously,  in  confusion.  There  were 
doubts,  uncertainties  and  suspicions.  He  was  com- 
pletely in  a mesh.  His  mind  was  like  a refuse  heap. 
There  was  no  beginning  or  end  to  any  chain  of 
reasoning.  He  gave  it  up  in  despair. 

“Commandant,”  he  said,  again  touching  his  fore- 
head, “I  can  make  out  nothin’.  My  head  is  sore. 
I must  be  drunk.” 

Again  it  was  the  same  bewildered,  agonizing  cry 
of  a lost  human  soul.  A weak,  thin,  childish  voice, 
coming  from  a giant. 

“Well,  never  mind,”  said  Gallagher  cheerfully, 
“we’ll  leave  it  at  that.  We’ll  carry  on.  Before  you 
went  down  to  Aunt  Betty’s,  Mulholland  saw  you  in  a 

222 


THE  INFORMER 

fish-and-chip  shop,  treating  a crowd  of  people  to  a 
free  meal.  He  said  you  spent  about  a pound  there. 
Two  pounds,  three  pounds,  two  pounds,  one  pound. 
. . . Well!  You  certainly  were  in  a generous  mood. 
American  sailors  are  paid  well  of  course.  Throwing 
money  about  in  all  directions,  eh?  Like  a million- 
aire! But  of  course  that’s  your  own  business.  We 
are  simply  trying  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  business 
we  have  in  hand.  That  business  is  simply  this: 
WHO  INFORMED  ON  YOUR  PAL  FRANCIS  JOSEPH 

McPhillip?” 

Gallagher  uttered  the  sentence  slowly  and  in  a loud 
voice,  looking  closely  at  Gypo  as  he  did  so.  Gypo 
started.  His  lips  opened  wide.  But  he  remained 
silent.  His  lips  moved,  forming  the  words  Gal- 
lagher had  uttered,  silently. 

Gallagher  watched  the  movement  of  Gypo’s  lips 
with  curious  detachment.  Then  he  smiled  slightly 
before  continuing. 

“Before  that  of  course,”  he  continued,  “I  met  you 
myself  in  the  public-house,  in — er — Ryan’s  public- 
house  in  Titt  Street.  There  was  where  you  told  me 
that  funny  story  about  the  Rat  Mulligan.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  . . .” 

Gallagher  suddenly  roared  with  laughter,  holding 
his  sides,  with  his  head  in  the  air.  Gypo  almost 
leaped  from  his  form.  He  trembled. 

“Well,  of  all  the  stories!”  continued  Gallagher, 
pretending  to  gasp  with  laughter.  “I  can’t  make  out 

223 


THE  INFORMER 


why  you  told  me  that  story,  Gypo.  I can’t  make  it 
out.  Well,  there’s  no  knowing.  . . . But  we  must 
get  on  with  our  own  work.  Time’s  running  short 
and  we  have  some  stiff  work  to  do  before  the  night’s 
over.  Some  stiff  work,  Gypo.  Well?  Before  you 
came  into  the  public-house  you  were  in  Francis  Mc- 
Phillip’s  house  in  44  Titt  Street.  There  again,  you 
seemed  to  be  acting  in  a very  funny  way,  according 
to  Bartly  Mulholland.  Of  course,  I can  understand 
your  being  stirred  up  and  excited  on  account  of  the 
death  of  your  pal.  But  still.  . . . Do  you  remem- 
ber giving  Mrs.  McPhillip  the  money  that  fell  out  of 
your  pocket  on  to  the  kitchen  floor?  What  did  you 
do  that  for?  Eh?  Good  Lord!  You  have  left  a 
trail  of  gold  after  you  all  the  evening.  I wish  it 
were  as  easy  to  track  the  man  you  saw  coming  out 
of  the  Dunboy  Lodging  House  after  Frankie.  But 
why  did  you  give  that  few  shillings  to  Mrs.  McPhillip 
and  say  it  was  all  the  money  you  had  when  you  knew 
very  well  you  had  a lot  more  in  your  pocket  at  that 
very  moment?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  growled  Gypo. 

His  voice  was  no  longer  weak  and  childish.  He 
was  stiffening  again. 

“Maybe  you  were  drunk  even  then,”  suggested 
Gallagher,  almost  excitedly,  as  if  he  were  deliber- 
ately trying  to  apologize  for  Gypo’s  absurdities. 
“Maybe  you  were  drunk.  What?” 

224 


THE  INFORMER 

“Didn’t  I tell  ye  before  I was  drunk,”  grunted 
Gypo. 

“Ha!  I knew  ye  were  drunk.  Where  had  you 
been  drinking?” 

“Couldn’t  tell  ye  where,  but  I know  I was  drinkin’ 
with  Katie  Fox.” 

“Ha!  Now  we  have  it,”  cried  Gallagher,  striking 
the  table. 

“Now  you  got  what?”  yelled  Gypo,  panting  and 
leaning  forward  savagely.  He  opened  his  fists  out 
like  claws.  He  spread  his  feet  out  ready  to  spring. 
“What  have  ye  got,  Commandant?”  he  yelled 
hoarsely. 

Gallagher  took  his  pistol  by  the  butt  and  tapped 
the  muzzle  slightly  on  the  table  three  times.  The 
two  armed  men  pointed  their  revolvers  at  Gypo’s 
back.  The  three  judges  who  had  been  calmly  smok- 
ing cigarettes  started.  Mulholland  made  a slight 
movement  towards  the  door. 

Then  Gypo  subsided  into  his  seat  loosely.  The 
dreadful  fascination  of  Gallagher’s  cold  eyes  sucked 
his  passion  clean  out  of  him.  Breathing  in  a tired 
way,  he  sat  still.  The  tension  relaxed  again.  Gal- 
lagher laid  his  pistol  on  the  table  and  smiled. 

“No  need  to  have  got  excited,  Gypo,”  he  said.  “I 
was  just  saying  that  it  was  when  you  were  drinking 
with  Katie  Fox  you  said  you  robbed  a sailor  at  the 
back  of  Cassidy’s  public-house.  Maybe  she  asked 

225 


THE  INFORMER 

you  where  you  got  the  money  out  of  pure  idle  curi- 
osity and  you  told  her  that  as  a joke.  We  all  know 
what  curious  creatures  women  are.  That  doesn’t 
matter,  though.  What  does  matter  is  this.  Could 
you  remember  what  time  that  was?  When  you  were 
drinking  with  Katie  Fox?  What  time  was  it?” 

“I  can’t  say,”  mumbled  Gypo  stolidly.  “I’m 
drunk.  I can’t  remember.” 

“Well,  now  that’s  a pity,”  said  Gallagher.  “For 
it’s  very  important  for  us  to  find  out  what  that  time 
was.  If  we  were  able  to  find  out  what  time  that  was, 
then  we  would  surely  be  able  to  find  out  lots  more. 
Let  us  say  it  was  nine  o’clock  at  that  time.  Let  us 
say  nine.  That  wouldn’t  be  far  out?  Would  it  be 
for  out,  Gypo?” 

“How  do  I know  what  time  it  was?”  roared  Gypo. 
‘Amn’t  I tellin’  ye  that  I was  drunk?” 

“Well,  now,”  continued  Gallagher,  getting  a little 
more  excited,  “we  have  got  as  far  as  nine  o’clock. 
We  are  as  far  back  as  nine  o’clock.” 

He  paused.  His  face  began  to  light  up  and  his 
forehead  began  to  wrinkle.  His  eyes  were  no  longer 
steely  and  cold.  They  became  restless  points,  fiery 
and  full  of  turbulent  activity.  They  kept  roaming 
over  Gypo’s  face.  His  lips,  on  the  contrary,  were 
creased  at  the  corners  in  a strange,  dry  smile.  His 
voice  was  laughing  and  at  a slightly  higher  and 
sweeter  pitch. 

“Now  we  have  arrived  at  nine  o’clock,”  he  con- 
226 


THE  INFORMER 

tinued,  “travelling  backwards.  Great  way  this  for 
travelling,  Gypo.  You  never  know  what  you  are 
going  to  bump  against  without  knowing.  Any  min- 
ute now  we  are  liable  to  find  something,  Gypo.  We 
might  in  a few  moments,  even  jump  on  the  man  that 
informed  on  Frankie  McPhillip.  We  might  jump 
on  him.  Now!  Easy  there,  Gypo.  I mean  the 
man  you  saw  tracking  Frankie  McPhillip  out  of  the 
Dunboy  Lodging  House.  Could  you  give  the  court 
any  idea  of  the  description  of  that  man  you  saw? 
You  say  he  was  like  Mulligan?  Do  you  say  he  was 
like  Mulligan?  Speak,  man.  Speak,  I say,”  he 
roared. 

But  Gypo  was  no  longer  able  to  speak. 

A sudden  transformation  had  come  over  him.  As 
a thunder-storm  bursts  over  a calm  sea  on  a sultry 
day,  rending  the  oily  ocean  back  and  covering  it  with 
cavorting,  black  ridges  and  white,  churning  froth,  so 
his  body  and  soul  responded  to  the  sudden  lightning 
in  Gallagher’s  eyes  and  the  ominous  crackle  of  his 
voice,  uttering  sugared  threats,  gambolling  devilishly 
with  words.  He  crumbled  away  into  an  immense, 
flabby,  supine  mass,  that  writhed  on  the  wooden 
form,  a tangled  heap  of  limbs  lying  piled  helplessly. 
His  head  dropped  forward  on  his  chest,  swaying  from 
side  to  side  on  the  pivot  of  his  chin.  His  eyes  sank 
into  their  sockets.  His  face  went  ashen  and  still. 
His  legs  became  lax.  His  stomach  wrinkled  up  like 
an  unpropped  wall  collapsing  on  its  own  foundations. 

227 


THE  INFORMER 

His  whole  body  shivered  and  started  into  awe-inspir- 
ing movement,  monstrous  and  inhuman,  revolting  as 
a spectacle  of  degrading  vice  and  yet  pitiful  in  its 
helplessness. 

All  the  countless  centuries  of  human  development 
that  had  left  their  impression  on  that  body,  to  make 
it  into  the  glorious  image  of  a God-like  human  being, 
withered  away  during  that  time  of  agony,  leaving 
only  a chaotic  collection  of  limbs  writhing  and 
strange  visions  racing  over  his  convulsing  features. 

The  sight  was  fearsome  even  to  the  callous  men 
that  surrounded  him.  Even  their  hardened  souls 
saw  a vision  of  a strange  life  just  then,  an  unknown 
and  unexpected  phantom  that  comes  to  some  once  in 
their  lives  and  that  never  comes  to  many,  the  phan- 
tom of  a human  soul  stripped  naked  of  the  covering 
of  civilization,  lying  naked  and  horror-stricken,  with- 
out help,  without  hope  of  mercy.  They  forgot  for 
the  moment  their  hatred  of  him.  They  forgot  that 
this  helpless,  shapeless  mass  of  humanity  was  a 
menace  to  their  lives.  They  forgot  that  he  was  a 
viper  they  must  crush.  They  only  knew  at  that  mo- 
ment, that  he  was  a poor,  weak  human  being  like 
themselves,  a human  soul,  weak  and  helpless  in  suffer- 
ing, shivering  in  the  toils  of  the  eternal  struggle  of 
the  human  soul  with  pain. 

Their  mouths  opened  wide.  Their  eyes  grew  soft. 
Some  made  unconscious  movements  with  their  hands, 
others  with  their  feet,  unconscious  movements  of 

228 


THE  INFORMER 

which  their  minds  were  not  aware.  For  their  minds, 
disciplined  by  the  corroding  influence  of  hatred,  sat 
still  and  indifferent. 

One  man  alone  revelled  in  Gypo’s  agony.  He 
revelled  in  it  unconsciously.  He  was  no  longer  con- 
scious of  his  emotions.  He  had  become  demented, 
drunk  with  the  fury  of  his  hatred.  That  man  was 
Gallagher. 

He  rose  lightly  from  the  table,  without  a word, 
pawing  the  table  softly  with  his  hands  for  support, 
like  a panther  finding  foothold  for  a spring.  His 
lean,  glossy,  sallow  face  was  lit  with  a glow  of 
passionate  eagerness,  like  a lover  approaching  his 
beloved.  But  it  was  not  the  pure,  resplendent  eager- 
ness of  love.  It  was  the  eagerness  of  the  preying 
beast  about  to  spring.  The  lips  laughed,  thin, 
wrinkled,  red  lips  drawn  upwards  and  downwards 
from  the  set,  white  teeth.  The  eyes  glittered.  The 
forehead  twitched.  The  hands  trembled.  The 
whole  body  shivered  slightly,  with  those  minute 
shivers  that  pass  down  the  side  of  a setter  when  he 
stands  poised  over  his  prey.  He  rose  gradually  from 
the  table.  He  stepped  over  his  chair  with  his  right 
foot,  to  avoid  moving  the  chair.  He  released  his 
body  from  contact  with  the  table  and  the  chair. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Gypo’s  face.  He  stood 
crouching.  His  head  was  swung  forward,  almost  on 
a level  with  his  stooping  shoulders.  He  groped  with 
his  right  hand  on  the  table  for  his  pistol.  His  fingers 

229 


THE  INFORMER 

found  the  butt.  Slowly  they  embraced  it.  The 
forefinger  sought  the  trigger  and  found  it.  He  lifted 
the  pistol  from  the  table.  He  brought  it  with  a 
sharp  movement  to  his  hip.  Its  muzzle  pointed  at 
Gypo’s  chest.  He  took  one  short  pace  forward. 

Gypo  uttered  a sharp  yell  and  put  his  two  hands 
to  his  face,  shielding  his  eyes.  But  he  took  them 
away  again  almost  immediately.  They  dropped  to 
his  sides.  He  must  look  at  Gallagher’s  eyes.  He 
could  not  remain  hidden  from  those  eyes.  They 
burned  into  his  flesh  unless  he  looked  at  them  with 
his  own. 

Gallagher  spoke.  His  voice  was  almost  inaudible. 
It  was  soft  and  sweet  like  a girl’s  voice. 

“As  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  voice,”  he  whis- 
pered, “I  had  better  tell  you  myself  who  that  man 
was.  There’s  no  need  to  describe  him  for  the  court. 
The  court  can  see  the  man  for  themselves.  I’m 
going  to  tell  the  court  the  very  name  of  the  informer 
that  betrayed  his  comrade,  Francis  Joseph  McPhillip, 
I’m  going  to  point  out  the  informer  with  my  own 
hand.  That  is  the  man,”  he  cried  suddenly,  with 
terrific  force,  turning  to  the  judges  and  pointing  his 
pistol  at  Gypo.’  “Comrades,  the  informer  is  Gypo 
Nolan,  who  is  sitting  there  on  that  form.” 

He  had  scarcely  finished  when  Gypo  uttered  a 
muffled  scream  like  a dumb  animal  in  mortal  agony. 
He  tumbled  forward  to  the  stone  floor.  He  frothed 

230 


THE  INFORMER 

at  the  mouth.  He  reached  out  his  trembling  hands 
towards  Gallagher. 

“Commandant,”  he  cried,  “I  didn’t  know  what  I 
was  doin’.  I declare  to  God  I didn’t  know  what  I 
was  doin’.  Can’t  ye  see  what  I mane?”  He  raised 
his  voice  to  a scream  and  he  kept  dragging  himself 
forward  over  the  floor  towards  Gallagher’s  feet. 
Then  he  struggled  to  his  hands  and  knees.  He 
stretched  out  his  hands  on  either  side,  panting:  “Is 
there  no  man  here  to  tell  him  why  I did  it?  I can’t 
tell  him.  My  head  is  sore.  I can’t  tell  him.  Com- 
mandant, Commandant,  you  an’  me,  Commandant. 
We’ll  make  a plan,  the  two  of  us  . . . uh-r-r-r.  . . .” 

His  voice  sang  into  an  inarticulate  jabber  as  his 
hands  clutched  Gallagher’s  boots  and  he  sank  again 
prone  to  the  ground.  His  thick  lips  that  tried  to  kiss 
Gallagher’s  boots  were  imprinting  kisses  on  the  stone 
flags.  Gallagher  kicked  away  the  clutching  hands 
and  called  out  sharply: 

“Take  him  to  the  cell  and  place  him  under  close 
guard.” 

Immediately  the  four  armed  men  rushed  forward 
and  bent  down  to  seize  Gypo.  But  as  soon  as  they 
touched  him,  he  stiffened.  He  immediately  rose 
with  them  to  his  feet,  with  an  accession  of  unac- 
countable strength.  He  shook  the  four  men  off  with 
a shrug  of  his  whole  body.  Then  he  was  about  to 
crouch  to  rush  at  Gallagher,  when  the  four  of  them 

231 


THE  INFORMER 

flung  themselves  upon  him  again  with  a simultaneous 
cry.  He  swayed  for  a moment  on  bent  thighs, 
reeling  under  the  impact  of  the  four  bodies,  two  of 
them  on  his  back,  two  gripping  him  about  the  waist. 
Then  he  took  a fierce,  taut  step  forward  with  his 
right  foot,  gasping  as  he  did  so.  He  planted  the 
boot  on  the  floor  with  a ringing  sound  and  then 
jerked  himself  backwards.  The  two  men  who  had 
landed  on  his  back,  flung  their  arms  around  his 
neck  and  swayed,  banging  their  heads  together,  their 
legs  flying  adrift.  A cry  arose:  “Overpower  him. 
Help!  Help!” 

The  three  judges  moved  back  from  the  table  and 
stood  against  the  wall,  undecided  whether  to  run  for 
safety,  or  to  rush  to  the  attack. 

Mulholland  pulled  at  Gallagher’s  arm  excitedly. 

“Will  I fire,  Commandant?”  he  whispered. 

“Don’t  shoot,”  murmured  Gallagher  in  a dazed, 
sleepy  voice.  He  was  staring  at  the  struggling  men 
with  a sad  smile  on  his  face,  as  if  he  were  dreaming. 
“Don’t  shoot.  He’s  not  sentenced  yet.  Don’t  fire, 
I tell  you.” 

Then  Mulholland  ran  crouching  and  threw  himself 
at  Gypo’s  legs,  trying  to  encompass  them  with  his 
arms.  There  were  now  five  men  hanging  on  to  Gypo. 
He  was  like  Laocoon,  entwined  with  snakes.  He 
stood  bolt  upright,  with  every  muscle  on  his  body 
knotted. 

Then  he  lurched  away  to  the  right  towards  the 
232 


THE  INFORMER 

door,  with  that  human  cargo,  unmoored  and  swinging 
by  the  sudden  lurch,  clashing  with  soft  thuds,  in  a 
panting  mass.  He  was  brought  within  three  paces 
of  the  door  by  the  lurch.  He  saw  the  door.  With 
an  immense  wrench  that  made  his  biceps  crack,  he 
shook  the  men  from  off  his  back  and  neck.  They 
slithered  downwards  with  a scratching  sound  of  their 
nails  clawing  his  clothes.  They  clung  round  his 
hips.  Then  he  growled  and  stooped  down  to  man- 
handle the  men  that  clung  to  his  legs.  His  grop- 
ing hands  clutched  Mulholland’s  hair.  His  fingers 
groped  downwards,  seeking  the  throat  to  garrotte 
him,  when  a mad  rush  of  feet  startled  him.  He 
looked  up. 

They  were  rushing  at  him  through  the  doorway. 
He  saw  them  for  a moment,  a number  of  flashing 
eyes,  and  set  lips  and  clawing  hands,  rushing  at 
him.  Then  he  dived  headlong  at  his  new  enemies. 
He  forced  them  backwards  in  a mass  into  the  door- 
way. There  they  all  fell,  amid  yells  and  hissing 
curses  and  shrieks  of  pain.  Then  Gypo’s  great  boots 
stuck  out  of  the  pile  in  the  centre,  while  Mulholland’s 
grinning,  sallow  face  peered  up  between  them. 

When  they  cleared  away  the  jam  of  human  bodies 
from  him  he  was  exhausted.  Four  men  pinioned  his 
arms  behind  his  back.  Then  he  was  dragged  along 
the  passage  into  the  prison  cell.  They  loosed  him 
and  threw  him  in.  They  bolted  the  door. 


233 


CHAPTER  XII 


At  eleven  minutes  past  three  Gypo  was 
condemned  to  death.  The  three  judges 
went  away,  leaving  Gallagher  in  charge  of 
the  execution  of  the  sentence. 

At  eighteen  minutes  past  three  Mulholland  entered 
the  inquiry  room,  with  the  three  men  who  had  been 
detailed  to  carry  out  the  sentence  passed  on  the 
prisoner.  They  stood  to  attention  in  front  of  the 
table  at  which  Gallagher  was  sitting.  Gallagher  read 
to  them  the  decision  of  the  court.  Then  he  gave 
them  their  orders. 

“Comrade  Mulholland,”  he  said,  “will  be  in  charge. 
When  I leave  this  room  you  will  cast  lots  in  the  usual 
manner.  You  will  then  take  the  prisoner  in  the 
motor-van  to  any  part  of  the  mountain  road,  about 
half-way  between  Killakee  and  Glencree.  There  is 
bog  on  either  side  of  the  road.  At  any  spot  in  that 
locality,  you  will  be  at  least  two  miles  from  the 
nearest  house.  Execute  the  sentence  there.  Bury 
the  body  some  distance  from  the  road.  Just  drop  it 
into  a pool  of  bog  water.  When  you  have  finished 
the  job  go  straight  ahead  across  the  mountain  to  En- 
niskerry  and  come  back  to  the  city  by  another  route. 
There  are  several.  You  can  choose  the  most  con- 

234 


THE  INFORMER 

venient.  Report  to  me  at  head-quarters  as  soon  as 
you  come  back,  Bartly.  I will  wait  for  you  there. 
Carry  on,  comrades.  Get  the  prisoner  away  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Use  force  if  necessary  to  pre- 
vent him  from  creating  a disturbance,  but  you  must 
on  no  account  execute  the  sentence  until  you  get  to 
the  mountains.” 

Gallagher  left  the  room.  He  went  across  the  pas- 
sage to  the  room  where  Mary  McPhillip  was  sitting 
alone.  All  the  armed  men  were  gathered  in  the 
guardroom  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Tommy  Con- 
nor had  come  in  now.  He  was  explaining  something 
to  them  in  a hoarse  voice.  Two  men  were  stationed 
outside  the  door  of  the  cell.  The  sentry  paced  up 
and  down  the  passage  again. 

Gallagher  sat  down  on  the  wooden  form  beside 
Mary  McPhillip.  He  did  not  look  at  her.  He 
stared  at  the  floor.  His  forehead  twitched.  His 
face  was  very  drawn. 

“We  have  discovered  the  informer,  Mary,”  he  said 
in  a low  voice.  “Your  brother  will  be  shortly 
avenged.  It  was  Gypo  Nolan  who  betrayed  him.” 

There  was  silence.  Gallagher  had  uttered  the 
last  sentence  dramatically,  like  a tremendous  revela- 
tion. But  Mary  did  not  speak.  He  looked  at  her. 

“Mary,”  he  said  again,  a little  louder.  “It  was 
Gypo  Nolan  who  informed  on  your  brother.” 

She  shuddered  and  looked  at  him  sadly  in  the 
gloom. 


235 


THE  INFORMER 


“I  knew  that,”  she  said,  “all  along.  Poor  fellow.” 

“What?”  he  gasped,  staring  at  her. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him,  Dan?”  she 
asked,  almost  inaudibly.  “I  hope  you’re  not  . . .” 
She  stopped. 

Gallagher  looked  at  her  sharply,  in  wonder,  sus- 
piciously, as  if  he  had  suddenly  proved  to  himself 
that  all  his  calculations  had  been  wrong  about  some- 
thing. 

“Surely  what,  Mary?”  he  said  at  length,  almost 
timorously. 

“You’re  not  going  to  kill  him,”  she  said.  “That 
would  only  be  another  murder,  added  to  . . . to  the 
other.  It  wouldn’t  help  the  dead.  Lord  have 
mercy  on  him.” 

“Murder!”  ejaculated  Gallagher  dreamily,  as  if  he 
had  heard  the  word  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  and 
he  were  reflecting  on  its  significance,  incredulously 
like  a philosopher  confronted  unexpectedly  by  a 
stupendous  superstition.  Then  his  nostrils  expanded 
and  his  face  hardened  into  anger,  as  he  realized,  her 
meaning  and  her  attitude  towards  the  sentence  that 
was  about  to  be  passed  on  Gypo.  “Murder,  did 
you  say?  Great  Scott!  Do  you  call  it  murder 
to  wipe  out  a serpent  that  has  betrayed  your 
brother?  Where  is  your  . . . ? Do  you  call  your- 
self an  Irishwoman?  What?  Good  Lord!  I don’t 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  What  . . . ? Good 
Heavens!” 


236 


THE  INFORMER 

“Listen  to  me,  Dan,”  she  said,  sobbing;  “for  God’s 
sake,  listen  to  me  before  you  do  this.  Listen.  I 
didn’t  know  until  now  how  awful  it  is.  I was  foolish 
the  way  I talked  at  home  this  evening  when  all  the 
people  were  there.  I was  so  mad  the  way  father  was 
talking  that  I thought  I could  shoot  the  man  that  in- 
formed on  Frankie  myself.  But  it  would  be  murder, 
Dan,  just  the  same  as  any  other  murder.  And ” 

“Oh,  hang  it!”  snapped  Gallagher. 

“Dan,”  she  whispered,  “don’t  do  it,  for  my  sake. 
I love  you.  Don’t  do  it,  for  my  sake  and  I’ll  do 
anything  you  want  me.  I feel  I’m  the  cause  of  this.” 

“Mary,  do  you  love  me?”  whispered  Gallagher  ex- 
citedly, panting  as  he  seized  her  right  hand  in  both 
of  his.  He  bent  towards  her.  “Say  it  again.  Say 
you  love  me.” 

But  he  drew  back  immediately,  with  a strange 
and  unnatural  presence  of  mind.  He  was  afraid  that 
the  passing  sentry  might  see  him. 

Tears  were  rolling  down  Mary’s  cheeks.  She 
looked  away  towards  the  doorway.  She  kept  silent. 
Gallagher  leaned  back  from  her,  watching  her  face 
intently.  He  looked  at  her  from  under  his  bunched 
eyebrows.  Ilis  lips  were  set  firmly.  His  forehead 
convulsed.  He  appeared  to  be  struggling  with  a 
savage  passion  and  at  the  same  time  struggling  to 
think  coherently  on  the  intellectual  plane.  He  was 
trying  to  probe  the  movements  of  her  mind  so  that  he 
might  conquer  it  with  his  mind.  He  wanted  to  con- 

237 


THE  INFORMER 

quer  her  mind  and  make  her  subject  to  him,  to  make 
her  his  mate  on  his  own  terms.  He  told  himself  that 
he  was  doing  this,  so  that  she  might  help  him  for  the 
conquest  of  power.  He  refused  to  admit  to  himself 
that  he  was  inspired  by  passion.  He  despised  pas- 
sion. 

The  silence  was  very  peculiar  and  tense.  Mary 
was  conscious  of  it.  But  Gallagher  was  not  con- 
scious of  it.  Then  Mary  spoke.  She  talked  rapidly 
without  looking  at  him.  She  talked  in  an  irritated 
tone. 

“Take  me  out  of  this  place  immediately,  Dan,” 
she  said.  “I  was  mad  to  come  here  with  you.  I 
had  no  business  to  come  here  atall.  Also,  if  you  were 
a gentleman  you  wouldn’t  ask  me  to  come.  What  I 
said  just  now  about  loving  you  was  not  true.  I only 
said  it  trying  to  persuade  you  not  to  murder  that 
man.  Before,  when  I used  to  read  in  the  papers 
about  a man  being  shot,  I used  to  think  it  was  right, 
but  it’s  a different  thing  when  a man  you  know  does 
a think  like  that.  Frankie  killed  a man  too,  Lord 
have  mercy  on  him.  Oh,  God,  have  pity  on  us  all.” 
She  became  slightly  hysterical.  “Why  can’t  we  have 
peace?  Why  must  we  be  killing  one  another? 
Why 

““Hush!  Keep  quiet.  Keep  quiet.” 

“Isn’t  it  cruel,  Dan?” 

She  let  her  head  fall  on  her  hands.  Her  body 
shook  with  silent  sobs. 


238 


THE  INFORMER 

Gallagher  stared  at  her  dreamily. 

“I  will  let  her  alone  now,”  he  thought.  “The  logi- 
cal sequence  of  this  outburst  will  be  this.  Her  mind 
will  wheel  around  to  the  other  extreme  if  I keep  quiet 
and  don’t  irritate  her  by  attempting  to  convince  her 
that  I am  right.  Her  terror  and  her  moral  excite- 
ment will  exhaust  themselves  and  go  to  sleep.  Then 
she  will  become  aware  of  her  strange  surroundings, 
mentally,  in  a different  way.  When  her  mind  be- 
comes awake  and  normally  acute  again,  she  will  see 
me,  this  place  and  what’s  going  to  be  done  with  Gypo, 
in  an  opposite  light.  When  her  mind  is  groping 
about  in  this  new  attitude  it  will  be  easy  for  me  to 
influence  her.  I think  I’m  right.  At  least  it  always 
held  good,  that  rule.  I remember  the  struggle  I had 
with  Sean  Conroy.  But  women  are  supposed  to  be 
different  from  men  a lot  psychologically.  But  I have 
to  chance  that.  It  would  be  suicidal  to  interfere 
with  her  now.  That’s  certain.  Still  . . . I’m  not 
sure  of  myself  with  her  somehow.  . . . It’s  not  like 
the  others.  And  . . .” 

Again  his  passion  surged  upwards.  He  sat  with- 
out thought,  fighting  it,  squeezing  his  palms  together, 
with  his  eyes  on  her  bent  neck. 


239 


CHAPTER  XIII 


When  Gallagher  left  the  inquiry  room, 
Mulholland  went  silently  to  a form  and 
sat  down.  The  three  men  stood  nervously 
in  front  of  the  table  watching  him.  They  watched 
him  intently,  in  silence,  as  if  each  movement  he  made 
was  fraught  with  grave  consequences  to  themselves. 

He  took  three  matches  from  a box  and  placed  them 
beside  him  on  the  form.  He  handled  them  slowly 
and  deliberately,  with  a serious  contemplative  ex- 
pression on  his  face,  like  an  old  fisherman  baiting  his 
hooks  under  the  admiring  glances  of  a party  of  tour- 
ists. Then  he  took  out  a clasp  knife  and  opened  it. 
He  cut  a piece  off  one  match.  He  put  the  knife  back 
into  his  pocket. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  cleared  his  throat  with  a noise 
that  sounded  enormous  in  the  silence.  The  three 
men  started.  They  looked  at  one  another  fearfully, 
as  if  each  had  been  caught  by  the  others  in  the  com- 
mission of  an  indecency. 

Mulholland  rose  calmly  and  approached  them, 
holding  the  three  matches  on  his  open  palm.  With- 
out speaking  he  pointed  to  them.  Two  long  and  one 
short.  They  all  examined  them.  Right.  Each 

240 


THE  INFORMER 

nodded  his  head  solemnly.  Not  a word.  Mul- 
holland  nodded  and  marched  away  to  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  They  did  not  follow  him  now  with  their 
eyes.  They  stared  painfully  at  the  floor. 

The  tallest  of  them  was  a docker  called  Peter 
Hackett.  He  was  a fair-haired  young  giant,  slim 
and  lean  faced,  with  sleepy  blue  eyes  and  a gentle 
mouth.  His  great  bony  hands  were  thickly  covered 
with  long  white  hairs.  He  stood  with  his  arms 
folded  on  his  chest,  one  leg  thrust  forward,  his  eyes 
wide  open  and  strained,  his  forehead  wrinkled.  He 
was  only  twenty-two.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had 
been  chosen  for  an  affair  of  this  sort.  It  was  par- 
ticularly strange  and  odious  to  him,  because  he  was 
a good-natured  soul,  loved  by  all  on  the  quays  where 
he  worked.  He  had  no  conception  of  politics  or  of 
any  problem  other  than  hurling,  football,  horse  rac- 
ing and  pitch  and  toss,  which  he  played  all  Sunday 
afternoon  on  the  Canal  bank  with  his  cronies.  He 
often  lost  his  whole  week’s  wages  playing  pitch  and 
toss.  On  these  occasions,  when  he  went  home  to  his 
young  wife  penniless,  he  would  first  of  all  dance 
around  the  kitchen  in  a fit  of  rage  and  perhaps  break 
a thing  or  two,  threatening  to  blow  Kitty’s  brains 
out  if  she  said  a word.  Then  his  anger  would  sud- 
denly evaporate,  to  be  followed  by  a fit  of  sobbing. 
During  this  fit  he  sat  by  the  fire  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  moaning  and  begging  Kitty  to  forgive  him. 
His  wife  always  felt  exalted  when  these  outbursts  oc- 

241 


THE  INFORMER 

curred,  because  the  excitement  of  the  quarrel  and 
Peter’s  kisses,  which  lasted  far  into  the  night  after- 
wards, were  a welcome  break  in  the  dreary  monotony 
of  everyday  life  as  a docker’s  wife,  scouring,  cooking, 
washing,  with  two  children  to  look  after  on  a docker’s 
wages. 

Peter  had  no  imagination.  He  lacked  the  refined 
conscience  and  sense  of  injustice  that  attracts  most 
gentle  natures  like  his  towards  a revolutionary  move- ^ 
ment.  He  was  not  the  stuff  of  which  the  other  sort  of 
revolutionary  is  made  either.  He  belonged  to  the 
Organization  simply  because  the  rest  of  “the  boys” 
belonged  to  it,  and  out  of  fanatical  hero-worship  for 
Commandant  Dan  Gallagher. 

Dart  Flynn,  on  the  other  hand,  was  designed  by 
nature  as  a revolutionary,  a man  to  stalk  ahead  of 
the  bulk  of  humanity,  grimly  destroying  obstacles, 
disturbing  the  sluggish  existence  of  the  herd,  ter- 
rifying the  contented  ones  into  activity,  born  with  a 
curse  upon  his  brow,  anathema  to  the  mass  of  beings 
who  always  seek  tranquillity  and  peace  at  any  price. 
He  was  dour,  dark  visaged,  built  like  the  base  of  an 
oak  tree,  almost  square.  His  body  and  face  were 
fleshy  and  jealous  of  movement.  His  eyes  were 
small.  They  moved  horizontally.  He  was  clean 
shaven,  with  a pink  and  white  complexion,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty-five  and  lived  a hard 
life  as  a carter.  In  company,  he  hardly  ever  ex- 
pressed an  opinion  on  politics,  religion,  or  on  any 

242 


THE  INFORMER 

other  of  the  fundamental  things  that  are  discussed 
with  avidity  by  revolutionaries  who  carry  their  lives 
in  their  hands.  But  in  the  secrecy  of  his  own  soul 
he  thought  deeply  on  these  matters.  In  his  little 
bare  room  in  a lodging-house  in  Capel  Street,  he  had 
several  works  on  philosophy  and  economics.  He 
had  also  worked  out  an  amazing  system  of  philoso- 
phy, based  on  the  premise  that  each  human  being 
shares  his  soul  with  several  different  animals.  The 
man  who  could  discover  and  have  constant  inter- 
course with  these  animals  would  be  supremely  happy 
and  immortal. 

Flynn  had  no  moral  sense.  He  hated  all  human 
beings  who  were  not  Communists.  He  loved  all 
children  and  animals.  He  gave  most  of  his  wages  to 
the  hungry  little  ruffians  in  the  street.  He  had  no 
relatives  or  dependents.  He  was  an  old  member  of 
the  Organization,  highly  respected  for  his  courage, 
his  fidelity  and  his  taciturn  habits. 

The  third  man,  Laurence  Curley,  was  of  a totally 
different  type  from  both  his  companions.  He  was 
also  the  most  nervous  and  timorous.  He  was  twenty- 
eight,  pale  faced,  red  haired,  with  a tall,  thin  frame, 
slightly  consumptive-looking,  on  account  of  his  hol- 
low chest  and  stooping  shoulders.  His  father  had 
been  a doctor  in  a country  dispensary  district.  He 
had  received  a good  education,  but  he  early  grew 
dissatisfied  with  life  and  refused  to  study  for  the 
Bar  as  his  father  wished.  Instead  he  took  a job 

243 


THE  INFORMER 

in  Dublin  as  a clerk,  in  order  that  he  might  plunge 
into  the  revolutionary  movement. 

The  theory  of  Revolutionary  Communism  inter- 
ested him  far  more  than  working  for  a revolution. 
He  gradually  became  a crank,  hated  by  everybody. 
He  was  always  finding  fault  and  reading  or  discuss- 
ing dull  works  on  Socialism.  His  views  were  always 
the  most  extreme  and  blood-thirsty.  He  used  to 
whisper  excitedly,  whenever  he  met  a stranger  who 
did  not  know  him  yet,  or  when  the  least  industrial 
disturbance  occurred: 

“The  red  flag  will  be  hoisted  any  minute.  Wait  till 
you  see.  Then  blood  will  spill.  Wait  till  you  see. 
Justice  and  liberty  are  bourgeois  watchwords.  The 
proletarian  watchwords  are  revenge  and  bread.  The 
proletariat  knows  how  to  deal  out  their  deserts  to  the 
oppressors.” 

He  had  always  this  sort  of  patter. 

Now,  however,  the  three  of  them,  so  different  in 
essential  characteristics,  had  reached  a common  level 
of  emotion.  The  silence  of  the  night,  the  phantom- 
filled  cellars,  the  illegality  and  danger  of  the  contem- 
plated act,  the  torturing  uncertainty  of  the  choice, 
filled  them  with  such  delirious  emotions  that  they 
were  beside  themselves.  They  were  not  afraid. 
They  were  beyond  fear,  on  to  a distant  level  of  emo- 
tion, where  the  common  impulses,  that  agitate  the 
hearts  of  men,  are  unknown. 

Then  Mulholland  approached  with  the  matches 
244 


THE  INFORMER 

arranged  in  his  hand,  so  that  their  red  heads  alone 
were  visible. 

“Who’ll  draw  first?”  he  said  carelessly,  standing  in 
front  of  the  group. 

After  a moment’s  pause  Flynn  came  forward  hur- 
riedly. He  stretched  out  a fleshy  hand,  fumbled 
awkwardly  with  the  matches  and  then  pulled  one. 

They  all  strained  eagerly  to  look.  It  was  a long 
match.  Everybody  sighed. 

“Next,”  said  Mulholland. 

Curley  and  Hackett  looked  at  one  another  ex- 
citedly. Then  each  spoke. 

“You  go  first.” 

“No,  you  go  first.” 

“Go  ahead.  I don’t  mind  drawing  the  last.” 

“What’s  the  difference?  You’re  nearest.  Draw.” 

“Why  should  I?  It’s  your  turn.  You  draw.” 

“Come  on,”  snarled  Mulholland,  “one  of  you  draw. 
We  have  no  time.” 

They  both  made  a movement  towards  the  matches. 
Then  each  stopped  to  let  the  other  advance.  Their 
hands  and  legs  were  jerky.  They  stared  at  one 
another  with  hatred. 

“Come  on,”  hissed  Mulholland  again.  “Didn’t  ye 
hear  the  Commandant’s  orders,  that  we  were  to  get 
outa  the  place  as  soon  as  possible?  Are  ye  afraid 
or  what?” 

“Oh  no,”  cried  both  men  together  in  an  off-hand 
tone. 


245 


THE  INFORMER 

They  both  rushed  at  the  matches.  They  tussled 
for  them. 

“Keep  back  now.  It’s  my  turn.” 

“Keep  back,  you.  You  weren’t  so  quick  before. 
Let  me  draw.” 

“No,  I won’t.  I was  here  first.” 

“For  goodness’  sake,”  cried  Mulholland,  “ye  pair 
o’  babies.  Will  I have  to  pull  me  gat  on  ye?” 

The  two  of  them  stood  still,  looking  at  Mulholland 
dazedly. 

“It’s  against  the  rules,”  continued  Mulholland  with 
a great  sense  of  importance,  “but  I’m  goin’  to  call  ye 
in  the  order  o’  yer  rank.  You  draw  first,  Comrade 
Curley.” 

Curley’s  thin  fingers  shot  out  instantly.  He  drew 
the  match.  It  was  a long  one.  He  gasped.  Then 
he  burst  into  a thin  laugh. 

“Comrade  Hackett.” 

Hackett  stumbled  forward.  He  reached  for  the 
short  match  that  Mulholland  held  out  to  him  with  a 
strange  smile. 

“It’s  your  shot,  comrade,”  whispered  Mulholland. 

Hackett  grasped  the  match  and  crushed  it  into 
fragments  immediately.  He  threw  the  little  bundle 
away  in  terror.  He  rubbed  his  palms  slowly.  Then 
he  struck  his  right  coat  pocket  suddenly  with  his 
hand.  He  laughed. 

“Good  Lord!”  he  blubbered,  “I  thought  I’d  lost 
me  penknife.” 


246 


CHAPTER  XIV 


For  ten  minutes  Gypo  lay  perfectly  still 
in  the  cell,  after  the  door  was  bolted.  He 
lay  on  his  back.  His  head  and  neck  were 
buttressed  into  an  upright  position  by  a square  block 
of  stone  that  jutted  from  the  floor,  by  the  wall 
farthest  from  the  door.  His  feet  were  stretched  out, 
wide  apart.  One  hand  lay  on  his  right  hip,  palm 
upwards,  with  the  fingers  bent  inwards,  as  if  he  had 
fallen  asleep  clawing  something.  The  other  hand 
lay  across  his  eyes.  He  drew  very  deep  breaths  at 
long  intervals.  His  face  was  perfectly  at  peace.  It 
was  bruised  slightly  around  the  mouth  and  on  the 
cheek-bones.  Each  feature  was  impassive,  like  the 
features  of  a carved  image.  The  glossy  skin,  the 
humps,  the  eyebrows  that  were  like  snouts,  the  thick 
Ethiopian  lips,  attained  a majesty  during  that  ten 
minutes  of  abnormal  rest,  a majesty  that  was  not 
so  apparent  while  they  were  in  movement,  respond- 
ing to  the  strange  impulses  of  his  mind. 

Gypo  rested,  exhausted,  while  he  was  being  con- 
demned to  death.  It  was  a dead  rest,  like  the  rest  of 
a child  in  the  womb  before  birth,  sucking  strength  all 
round  for  the  savage  struggle  with  life  that  will  soon 

247 


THE  INFORMER 

commence.  Every  organ  and  tissue  and  muscle  was 
straining  for  a renewal  of  strength. 

When  blundering  reason  flees,  instinct,  that  is  fun- 
damental and  unerring,  rushes  to  the  defence  of  life. 

At  twelve  minutes  past  three,  one  minute  after  he 
had  been  condemned  to  death,  Gypo  moved.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  closed  the  right  hand  that  lay 
palm  upwards  on  the  ground.  He  clenched  the  hand 
rigidly  until  the  wrist  joint  snapped  with  the  tension. 
Then  he  took  the  other  hand  away  from  his  eyes  and 
dropped  it  to  his  bosom.  He  moved  his  eyes  around 
from  side  to  side,  slowly,  suspiciously,  blinking  and 
listening  intently. 

The  cell  was  pitch  black.  Only  at  one  point  was 
there  a speck  of  light.  There  was  a dim,  oblong 
patch  of  light  hanging  slantwise  in  the  darkness  some 
distance  to  his  left  front.  That  was  the  aperture 
near  the  top  of  the  door.  It  did  not  penetrate  the 
darkness  of  the  cell.  It  merely  hung  there,  ob- 
scurely and  uselessly,  like  a foolish  suggestion.  All 
round  was  pitch  dark.  Gypo  shivered. 

He  was  not  afraid.  No.  He  did  not  feel  at  all  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  But  he  was  im- 
mediately fully  conscious,  as  soon  as  he  moved,  of  all 
that  had  happened  before  he  had  been  thrown  into 
the  cell.  Still  more  peculiar,  he  was  quite  calm  and 
collected  about  everything.  The  darkness  consoled 
him.  He  felt  at  home  in  it.  It  concealed  him. 
He  felt  immensely  big  and  strong  in  the  dark- 

248 


THE  INFORMER 

ness.  There  was  nothing  in  his  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood but  a darksome  void  that  his  personality 
overpowered.  He  could  bellow  and  his  voice  would 
resound  through  that  darkness  indefinitely.  There 
would  be  no  resistance.  There  was  no  limit  to  the 
darkness,  no  wall,  no  horizon,  no  end.  He  was  en- 
compassed by  it,  sheathed  in  it.  It  wound  round 
and  round  him.  It  was  an  impenetrable  coat  of  mail, 
without  weight,  without  thickness,  intangible. 

Beyond  it  somewhere  were  his  enemies.  It  came 
between  him  and  them.  Ha! 

He  gathered  himself  up  with  a sudden  spring.  He 
got  to  his  hands  and  knees.  Several  joints  snapped 
as  he  did  so.  His  bruised  body  had  grown  stiff, 
lying  motionless  on  the  stone  floor.  Just  as  he  lay 
that  way  on  his  hands  and  knees,  he  heard  a rattle  at 
the  door.  Immediately  he  threw  himself  down  again 
and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  But  he  fell  so  that  his 
eyes  were  toward  the  oblong  patch  of  light.  He 
knew  what  had  rattled.  It  was  the  sentry  having  a 
look  at  him.  An  electric  torch  was  thrust  through 
the  aperture.  It  rested  on  him  for  a moment  or  two. 
Then  it  was  withdrawn. 

During  the  couple  of  moments  that  the  torch-light 
had  flooded  the  cell  Gypo’s  eyes  were  busy.  They 
had  darted  around.  Yes.  The  walls  were  hopeless. 
He  knew  that  of  course.  He  had  himself  guarded  a 
prisoner  in  this  same  cell,  a condemned  prisoner 
whom  he  and  McPhillip  and  Jem  Linnet,  the  book- 

249 


THE  INFORMER 

maker’s  clerk,  had  afterwards  brought  out  in  a car. 
He  knew  the  whole  routine.  Perhaps  that  knowledge 
was  responsible  for  his  calm,  partly  responsible. 
Nothing  was  uncertain  in  the  near  future.  In  a few 
minutes  they  would  come  for  him.  Once  in  the  car 
it  would  be  impossible  to  escape. 

All  right.  His  only  chance  was  in  the  cell.  Ha! 
That  was  why  he  was  calm  and  collected.  After  all, 
it  was  neither  the  darkness  nor  his  knowledge  of  what 
was  destined  to  happen  that  made  him  calm.  Mc- 
Phillip  had  at  last  made  a plan.  The  door  ...  the 
door  . . . the  door! 

“Gypo,”  he  had  said  one  night  in  Cassidy’s  when 
he  was  drunk,  “if  we  ever  get  . . . ye  know  what 
I mean,  Gyp  . . . click  . . . you  know  ...  ye 
needn’t  worry.  I can  manage  that  cell  easy.  Only 
I’d  need  you.  I’m  too  small.  Listen.” 

“I’ll  do  it,  Frankie,”  mumbled  Gypo  to  himself  ex- 
citedly, as  he  crawled  along  the  floor  towards  the 
door. 

He  moved  like  a bear  on  his  hands  and  knees,  with 
his  head  down  and  his  haunches  high  in  the  air.  He 
moved  noiselessly  until  he  reached  the  door.  He  felt 
along  the  edge  of  the  wall  and  then  drew  himself 
gradually  to  his  feet.  For  a moment  he  toyed  with 
the  idea  of  taking  off  his  boots,  but  he  could  not 
remember  that  Frankie  had  said  anything  about  that. 
He  decided  to  leave  them  on.  He  reached  up  with 

250 


THE  INFORMER 

his  hands.  He  strained  them  to  their  full  length  be- 
fore he  reached  the  top  of  the  stone  ledge  over  the 
door. 

Drawing  a deep  breath  he  hoisted  up  his  body, 
using  his  biceps  as  levers.  . . . His  biceps  swelled 
and  knotted  and  snapped.  . . . His  body  rose 
smartly  and  without  apparent  effort.  In  an  amazing 
way  he  swung  around  his  legs  from  the  hips  and 
landed  his  body  gently  on  the  ledge,  resting  on  the 
right  side  of  his  chest  and  stomach.  The  stone  ledge 
was  no  more  than  six  inches  wide.  More  than  half 
his  body  rested  on  the  empty  air,  as  it  lay  along  the 
ledge.  But  he  was  as  cool  as  if  he  were  standing 
loosely  on  the  broad,  firm  earth.  He  was  acting  on 
the  plan  he  and  McPhillip  had  rehearsed.  His  body 
performed  the  movements  without  his  mind  exercis- 
ing any  control,  either  of  guidance  or  of  warning, 
warning  against  danger  that  is  called  fear. 

After  a slight  pause,  he  leaned  his  weight  on  his 
hands  and  rolled  his  body  around  in  a reckless  move- 
ment. His  legs  shot  into  the  air  about  two  feet.  He 
stood  poised  on  his  hands  for  two  seconds,  as  if  he 
were  going  to  stand  on  his  head.  Then  he  lowered 
his  right  leg.  He  brought  it  up  to  his  hands. 
Slowly,  with  snapping  gasps,  he  balanced  himself  on 
the  right  leg  and  stood  up  straight. 

He  stood  straight  in  the  solid  darkness  for  a mo- 
ment. He  breathed  twice  rapidly.  Then  he  groped 

251 


TH  E INFORMER 

upwards  for  the  roof.  He  found  it  about  three 
inches  above  his  head.  He  pawed  the  stones  hur- 
riedly, searching.  He  couldn’t  find  what  he  wanted. 
It  should  be  there.  Mother  of  Mercy!  He  pawed 
out  farther.  Nothing  yet.  Sweat  stood  out  on  his 
forehead,  suddenly,  as  if  his  body  had  been  wrung. 
Savage  anger  gained  control  of  him.  He  bared  his 
lips  and  distended  his  eyes.  His  last  hope  gone? 
Had  they  taken  it  away  during  the  last  six  months? 
He  reached  out  one  inch  farther.  Too  far. 

With  a muffled  gasp,  he  hurtled  forward  from  the 
ledge.  His  hands  scraped  along  the  roof  with  a rasp- 
ing sound.  Then,  just  as  they  fell  in  pursuit  of  the 
falling  body,  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  closed  on 
an  iron  ring.  They  closed  on  it  like  a vice.  The 
shoulder  muscles  snapped.  Gypo  swung  across  the 
floor,  brought  up  with  a grunt,  jerked  and  swung 
back  again,  suspended  from  the  iron  ring  by  his 
right  hand. 

When  he  steadied  himself,  he  changed  hands  on 
the  ring  and  groped  about  with  his  right  hand,  until 
he  found  a hole  in  the  roof  about  three  inches  away 
from  the  ring.  That  was  the  hole  of  the  trap-door, 
through  which  the  wine  had  been  let  down  into  the 
‘ cellar  from  the  garden.  He  gripped  the  ring  with 
both  hands  and  swung  up  with  his  legs,  until  they 
found  the  far  side  of  the  hole.  He  jammed  both  feet 
against  the  side  of  the  hole  and  rested  for  four  sec- 

252 


THE  INFORMER 

onds,  breathing  deeply.  His  knees  were  bent  up- 
wards. 

He  reached  up  into  the  hole  with  his  right  foot. 
The  foot  reached  the  oaken  door  that  lay  across  the 
mouth.  It  had  been  fastened  with  leather  hinges, 
but  these  had  worn  away  and  they  had  not  been  re- 
newed since  the  house  became  deserted.  Several 
inches  of  earth  had  collected  on  it.  Gypo  pushed 
against  it  and  made  no  impression  on  this  mass  of 
earth  and  rubbish  that  covered  it.  He  took  another 
rest  and  then  pushed  with  all  his  might.  He  raised 
it  suddenly,  with  a sucking  sound,  about  three 
inches.  A mass  of  dirt  and  earth  fell  down  with 
a swish.  It  landed  on  the  floor  beneath  with  a 
showery  thud.  The  noise  terrified  Gypo.  The 
sentries  outside  the  door  would  hear  it. 

In  a furious  rage,  he  kicked  with  all  his  might 
and  sent  the  door  flying  away  from  the  hole.  A 
whole  load  of  earth  fell  with  a rush  and  a gust  of 
cold  night  air  came  with  it,  with  equal  rapidity, 
ferociously,  as  if  it  had  been  waiting  a long  time  to 
attack. 

In  spite  of  the  blinding  dirt  and  the  freezing  air, 
Gypo  stuck  his  legs  through  the  hole  immediately 
and  clutched  the  garden  surface  with  his  heels. 
Then  he  let  go  one  hand  off  the  ring  and  gripped  the 
side  of  the  hole.  He  hurt  his  collar-bone  badly  as 
he  did  so.  Now  his  body  was  secure  in  the  hole. 

253 


THE  INFORMER 

He  let  go  the  other  hand,  supporting  himself  on  the 
thigh  muscles  that  gripped  the  sides  of  the  hole 
until  the  second  hand  and  his  head  came  into  the 
hole.  Then  he  scrambled  through  on  to  the  garden. 
He  bounded  to  his  feet  and  hurtled  forward  on  his 
face. 

Two  shots  had  thundered  through  the  hole  as  he 
cleared  it.  They  were  after  him.  He  snorted  with 
fright.  For  a moment  he  stood  still,  confused  by 
the  din  of  voices  and  the  rushing  feet.  Then  he 
darted  away  headlong  through  the  rubbish  towards 
the  house,  ten  yards  away.  His  only  escape  lay  that 
way.  He  entered  the  house  at  a bound,  through  a 
hole  in  the  kitchen  wall.  He  cleared  the  kitchen  in 
two  strides.  He  was  in  the  hallway.  Flash,  flash, 
bang,  bang.  Two  more  shots.  His  fist  floored  a 
tall  man.  He  rammed  a second  with  his  head.  He 
floundered  through  the  hall.  Bang,  bang.  They 
whizzed  closely  past  his  right  side.  He  slipped  on 
the  flags  of  the  hall  as  he  tried  to  wheel  towards  the 
right  wall.  He  came  to  his  hands  and  knees.  As 
he  rose  again  a man  threw  himself  upon  him,  firing 
as  he  did  so,  so  closely  that  Gypo  smelt  the  explo- 
sion that  flashed  blindingly  by  his  ear.  Missed 
again.  They  closed,  grappling  one  another’s  bodies, 
with  groping,  shifting  paws.  They  tumbled  in  the 
doorway.  They  both  rose.  Gypo  loosed  one  arm 
and  struck.  The  other  man  collapsed  without  a 

254 


THE  INFORMER 

sound.  Gypo  dropped  him.  He  fell  on  his  back. 
It  was  the  Dart  Flynn. 

Gypo  grunted,  bounded  to  his  feet  and  wheeled 
to  the  right,  into  the  open  air.  With  a gurgling 
laugh,  he  bounded  away  into  the  darkness.  He  was 
away,  swallowed  by  the  night. 


255 


CHAPTER  XV 


When  Gallagher  heard  the  first  shot, 
he  started  to  his  feet  angrily.  He  thought 
that  his  orders  had  been  disobeyed  and 
that  they  had  shot  the  prisoner  before  taking  him  to 
the  mountains.  But  even  as  he  stood  up,  his  anger 
changed  to  terror.  He  heard  the  rushing  of  feet  and 
the  babble  of  shouting  voices,  calling  excitedly,  in  a 
panic: 

“He’s  escaped.  He’s  escaped.” 

“The  stairs.  The  stairs.  Up  the  stairs,  quick.” 
Mary  McPhillip  screamed.  Gallagher  did  not 
heed  her.  For  three  seconds  his  body  was  numbed 
with  fear.  He  could  not  move  a muscle.  His  lips 
blubbered.  He  was  like  an  exhausted  man  about  to 
have  a heart  attack.  He  stood  unstably,  like  an  up- 
rooted tree,  balancing  for  its  fall.  Mary  jumped  up 
and  clung  to  him.  He  did  not  look  at  her.  Then 
Mulholland  rushed  in.  He  was  livid  with  fear. 

“He’s  escaped,  Commandant,”  he  gasped;  “he’s 
gone.” 

Then  Gallagher  shook  himself  violently,  thrusting 
Mary  from  him  rudely.  Uttering  a volley  of  almost 

256 


THE  INFORMER 

inarticulate  oaths,  he  drew  his  pistol  and  grasped 
Mulholland  by  the  throat.  Mulholland  yelled  and 
struggled  downwards  to  his  knees. 

“Don’t  shoot  me,  Commandant,”  he  whined.  “It 
wasn’t  my  fault.  That  man  is  a devil  out  of  hell. 
There’s  a spell  on  him.  Don’t  fire  for  the  love  of 
God.” 

“Damn  you  and  God,”  snarled  Gallagher,  hurling 
him  away. 

He  rushed  out  into  the  hall. 

“After  him,”  he  yelled.  “After  him.  After  him.” 

There  was  nobody  to  take  any  notice  of  him. 
Everybody  was  on  the  street  in  pursuit  of  Gypo, 
except  the  sentry,  who  stood  uncertainly  in  the  door- 
way of  the  empty  cell,  with  his  pistol  in  his  hand 
and  his  cap  turned  backwards,  terrified,  gaping  at 
Gallagher. 

Then  a rush  of  feet  came  on  the  stairs.  Four  men 
were  coming  down  carrying  Flynn  between  them. 

“Who  is  that?”  cried  Gallagher. 

“It’s  Flynn,  Commandant,”  whispered  one. 

“His  jaw  is  broken  in  a jelly,”  whispered  another. 

They  arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  Galla- 
gher glanced  at  the  prostrate,  sagging  body  of  Flynn. 
“Throw  him  in  there  on  a form  at  once,”  he 
said.  “Mulholland.  Come  here.  Where  are  those 
others?” 

“Here  they  come,  Commandant.” 

“There’s  no  sight  of  him,  Commandant,”  gasped 

257 


THE  INFORMER 

Tommy  Connor,  leaping  down  the  stairs.  “We 
thought  we  had  better  come  back.” 

“All  right,”  said  Gallagher.  “Are  you  all  here 
now?” 

He  spoke  in  a terribly  calm  voice  now.  It  was 
terrifying.  Nobody  answered  for  a moment. 

“Hurry  on,  Peter,”  said  Connor  to  somebody  that 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

It  was  Hackett.  He  rushed  down,  panting,  with 
wild  eyes.  They  were  all  back  again. 

“Who’s  responsible  for  this?”  cried  Gallagher. 

Nobody  answered.  He  swore  and  strode  away 
down  the  passage  to  the  cell.  Connor  and  Mul- 
holland  followed  him.  The  others  stood  spellbound. 
Gallagher  pushed  the  sentry  out  of  the  way  with  a 
curse  and  entered  the  cell.  He  flashed  his  torch. 
He  saw  everything.  A cold  perspiration  started 
gently  around  his  temples.  He  shivered.  He  left 
the  cell  followed  by  the  two  men.  Nobody  spoke. 
They  returned  to  the  men  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
way. As  Connor  passed  the  room  where  Mary 
McPhillip  was,  he  ran  in,  picked  her  up  from  the 
floor  and  put  her  sitting  on  the  form.  Then  he 
rushed  away  to  Gallagher. 

Gallagher  stood  looking  at  the  ground  for  a few 
moments,  with  the  men  standing  around  him  in  si- 
lence. Then  he  looked  around  fiercely  at  every  one. 
He  spoke  gently  and  in  a friendly  tone. 

“Comrades,”  he  said,  “our  lives  are  at  stake. 
258 


THE  INFORMER 


What’s  more,  the  Organization  is  in  danger.  The 
cause  is  in  danger.  Comrades, — that — man — must 
— be — found.  That  man  must  be  found  if  it  costs 
a hundred  men.  Do  you  understand?” 

“Yes,  Commandant,”  cried  they  all  eagerly. 

“Finnigan  and  Murphy  stay  here  on  guard.  Do 
you  hear?” 

They  clicked  their  heels  in  silence. 

“Mulholland,  you  take  the  rest  with  you  in  the 
van  and  try  and  cut  him  off  from  the  bridges.  He 
will  try  and  cross  the  river  to  the  south  to  get  away 
to  the  mountains.  Get  away  immediately.  Place 
your  men  and  take  up  position  yourself  at  the  Butt 
Bridge.  I’ll  send  reinforcements  to  you  there  and 
another  officer.  Slattery,  you  get  reinforcements. 
Mobilize  ten  men  from  this  district.  Take  them 
off  your  own  list.  Beat  it.  Quick.  Off  you  go, 
Bartly.  Remember  the  Cause  is  at  stake.  We 
are  lost  if  that  man  gets  away.  He  may  be  making 
for  the  police  already.  Run  for  your  lives.” 

They  went  up  the  stairs,  rushing  with  fanatical 
enthusiasm.  In  three  seconds  Gallagher  was  alone 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  One  sentry  took  up  posi- 
tion at  the  top  of  the  stairway.  The  other  man 
went  into  the  guardroom  with  Flynn.  Mary  Mc- 
Phillip  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  witnesses’ 
room,  shivering,  almost  hysterical  with  fright. 

Gallagher  stood  for  almost  a minute,  motionless, 
looking  at  the  stairs,  with  his  eyes  almost  shut. 

259 


THE  INFORMER 

Then  he  shuddered  and  went  into  the  guardroom. 
The  sentry,  a red-faced,  young  grocer’s  assistant, 
was  tying  a red  silk  handkerchief  around  Flynn’s 
jaws.  The  only  part  of  Flynn’s  face  that  was  visible 
was  his  eyes.  Gallagher  watched  the  sentry  tying 
the  knot  at  the  back  of  Flynn’s  skull.  Then  he 
looked  into  Flynn’s  eyes. 

Flynn  stared  back  coldly.  Although  he  was  suf- 
fering agonies  of  pain  from  his  broken  jaw,  his  eyes 
betrayed  no  sign  of  pain. 

“Did  you  fire  at  him,  Dart?”  cried  Gallagher  in 
a whisper. 

Flynn  made  a slight  nodding  movement. 

“Did  you  hit  him?” 

Flynn  raised  his  right  hand  and  waved  it  from 
side  to  side,  like  a marker  giving  the  signal  for  a 
washout.  Gallagher  sighed. 

“Stick  it  out,”  he  said  coldly.  “We’ll  get  a doctor 
as  soon  as  the  reinforcements  come.  Can  you  swal- 
low a drop  of  brandy?” 

Flynn  nodded. 

“Here’s  my  flask.  Use  it.” 

He  put  the  flask  into  Flynn’s  hand.  He  pressed 
the  hand  as  he  did  so.  Then  he  left  the  guardroom 
and  walked  over  to  Mary  McPhillip. 

She  left  the  doorway  when  she  saw  him  coming. 
He  found  her  sitting  on  the  form.  He  stood  beside 
her,  looking  at  the  ground,  wrapt  in  thought,  grip- 
ping her  shoulder  with  his  right  hand.  She  became 

260 


THE  INFORMER 

terrified  at  his  attitude,  at  his  silence  and  the  look 
on  his  face,  which  she  could  see  dimly  in  the  gloom. 
His  face  had  become  ashen  pale.  His  eyes  had  sunk 
and  grown  glassy.  The  blood  had  left  his  lips.  He 
was  continually  grinding  his  back  teeth,  slowly. 

“Dan,”  she  whispered  at  length,  “what’s  the  mat- 
ter with  you?” 

He  did  not  answer  for  several  seconds.  Then  he 
started,  gasped,  and  let  go  her  shoulder.  He  took 
two  paces  rapidly  towards  the  door.  He  halted  and 
put  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  He  wheeled  about 
and  looked  at  her  curiously. 

“Oh  yes,”  he  said  calmly.  “I  forgot.  Excuse 
me.  I was  thinking  of  something  and  I didn’t  hear 
what  you  said.  Let  me  see.  Yes.” 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  He  took  her  right  hand 
gently  into  both  his  own  and  began  to  fondle  it, 
with  the  soft  gentle  movements  of  a cat.  He  be- 
gan to  speak  gently,  in  a soft,  sad  voice,  looking  at 
the  floor  in  front  of  him. 

“You’ll  have  to  stay  here  with  me  now,  Mary,”  he 
said,  “until  I’m  leaving  here.  Maybe  we’ll  have  to 
stay  here  two  hours,  maybe  more.  Gypo  has  es- 
caped. I can’t  move  until  I get  news  of  him.  The 
prisoner  has  escaped,”  he  repeated  almost  inaudibly. 
“If  he  can’t  be  found  it  will  be  the  end  of  me,  Mary. 
He  knows  so  much.” 

Mary  turned  towards  him  eagerly  and  swallowed 
her  breath.  Her  eyes  grew  moist  and  her  lips  quiv- 

261 


THE  INFORMER 

ered.  The  gentle  tone  of  his  voice  went  straight  to 
her  heart.  It  drew  her  towards  him,  not  with  the 
dreadful  fascination  with  which  she  was  drawn  to- 
wards him  before,  but  with  a soft,  gentle  attraction, 
like  what  she  had  imagined  love  would  be.  Not  the 
calm,  calculating,  respectable  affection  she  experi- 
enced for  the  man  she  intended  to  marry,  Joseph 
Augustine  Short,  but  that  tumultuous,  devouring 
passion  which  she  had  expected  real  love  to  be,  the 
love  that  was  written  of  in  books  and  poems.  Ah! 
How  she  could  love  him  like  this!  Soft  and  gentle 
like  this!  She  could  approach  him  and  touch  him, 
touch  something  in  him  that  was  soft  and  gentle 
and  sympathetic  and  human.  He  was  in  danger. 
Good  God ! It  was  good  that  he  was  in  danger,  if  it 
helped  to  disclose  to  her  his  real  self.  It  had  made 
him  weak,  this  danger,  ridding  him  of  the  horrid, 
impenetrable  strength,  that  kept  him  cruel  and  cold. 
If  she  could  have  him  to  herself  like  this,  she  would 
sacrifice  even  her  religion  for  his  love.  Aye!  She 
would  even  forsake  God  for  him  like  this. 

So  she  thought,  looking  at  him  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

She  smoothed  his  shoulder  gently  with  her  hand 
and  whispered  to  him: 

“Dan,”  she  said,  “you  are  in  danger.  Can  I help 
you,  Dan?  Dan,  you  know  I’d  give  my  life  for 
you.” 

Gallagher  turned  towards  her  slowly. 

262 


THE  INFORMER 

“You  would,  Mary,”  he  said  softly. 

She  nodded.  He  took  her  suddenly  in  his  arms. 

“You  love  me,  Mary.  Say  you  love  me,  Mary.” 

“I  love  you,  Dan,”  she  breathed  on  his  lips. 

They  kissed  passionately,  with  strange  abandon- 
ment. Then  they  sat  for  a minute,  with  their  cheeks 
together,  hardly  conscious  of  anything  but  of  a 
strange  exaltation  that  was  undefinable.  A hot  feel- 
ing of  joyous  exaltation  pervaded  their  bodies.  But 
it  was  not  the  exaltation  of  love.  It  was  an  aban- 
doned sadness  born  of  grief.  The  grief  of  two  hu- 
man souls  clinging  together  for  solace.  It  was  beau- 
tiful and  pure  like  love,  that  exaltation,  born  of  fear, 
and  of  the  eternal  melancholy  of  the  entramelled 
Irish  soul,  struggling  in  bondage. 

For  Mary  perhaps,  it  was  almost  pure  mating  love. 
For  she  loved  that  gentle  voice,  the  last  remnant  of 
the  gentle  nature,  that  had  been  devoured  in  the 
struggle  of  life  and  replaced  by  a cold,  callous,  am- 
bitious nature.  She  loved,  but  she  only  loved  a 
phantom,  a shy  ghost  come  for  an  hour  of  the  night, 
to  fly  from  the  dawn. 

But  for  Gallagher,  his  caresses  were  a mask.  He 
had  hidden  behind  his  gentle  nature  for  the  moment, 
as  behind  a mask,  to  rest  and  plot.  Men  like  him 
always  lean  on  women  for  support  in  moments  of  ex- 
treme danger. 

Even  as  he  sat  with  her  arms  about  him,  with  her 
breathing  words  of  love  on  his  lips,  he  was  thinking, 

263 


THE  INFORMER 

not  of  her,  but  of  the  great  danger  that  confronted 
him.  Would  Gypo  inform  again  before  he  was 
caught? 

At  length,  with  a low  exclamation  he  got  to  his 
feet,  releasing  himself  hurriedly  from  her  embrace. 
He  clenched  his  fists. 

“Mary,”  he  said  without  looking  at  her,  “you  see 
how  I need  you.  I need  somebody  to  talk  to,  some- 
body to  trust.  There  is  nobody  else  but  you  I can 
trust,  Mary.  And  I don’t  know  why  I trust  you.” 

He  paused.  She  was  not  listening.  She  was  suf- 
fering a reaction  from  her  exaltation.  Why  was  he 
talking  like  this?  A lover  did  not  talk  like  this. 
He  was  only  thinking  of  himself. 

“But  since  the  first  time  I saw  you,  standing  in  the 
crowd  with  another  girl,  while  I was  addressing  a 
strike  meeting,  I knew  I could  trust  you.  I remem- 
ber thinking  as  I saw  your  face,  that  you  were  the 
woman  for  me.  It  was  queer  and  I can’t  explain  it. 
Something  in  your  face  told  me  that  you  were  my 
woman.  It’s  very  queer,  that.  You  see  thousands 
of  faces  every  day.  There  is  something  queer  and 
mysterious  in  them  all,  something  suspicious  and 
hostile.  Then  you  see  one  face  that  you  have  been 
looking  for  all  your  life  as  it  were.  There  is  nothing 
hidden  or  mysterious  in  that  face.  It  can  hold 
nothing  hidden  from  you.  It’s  queer.  I haven’t 
worked  it  out  yet.  It’s  in  the  eyes,  I think.  The 
eyes  are  the  doors  of  the  mind.  But  I haven’t 

264 


THE  INFORMER 

worked  it  out  yet.  But  what  am  I talking  about? 
It’s  a sure  sign  that  I’m  worried  when  I ramble  off 
like  this.  I talk  to  myself  in  my  room,  for  want 
of  a listener,  when  I’m  up  against  it.  I talk  all 
night,  sitting  up  in  bed,  with  a pistol  in  my  hand.” 
He  lowered  his  voice  and  smiled  with  his  lips,  while 
his  eyes  glittered.  He  looked  at  her  for  a moment. 
“If  the  boys  knew  that  I get  the  wind  up  now 
and  again,  they  wouldn’t  be  afraid  of  me.  And 
then.  . . .”  He  drew  his  hand  across  his  windpipe. 
“Sure.  That’s  what  keeps  me  safe.  They  are 
afraid  of  me.  That’s  all  it  is.  It’s  not  love.  Oil 
no.  I wouldn’t  have  it,  anyway.  There’s  nothing 
like  fear.  Nobody  loves  me.  Not  even  that  slob- 
ber of  a fellow  Haclcett,  who  stooped  down  one  day 
on  the  quays  to  tie  my  shoelace.  He’d  die  for  me, 
but  only  because  he  believes  I’m  cold  and  hard  and 
callous  and  that  I could  shoot  him  dead  without  a 
quiver  of  an  eyelid.  You  see  . . . he’s  the  opposite 
from  . . . There  you  are,  Mary.  Good  God!  I 
must  be  very  bad  to-night.  I’m  wandering.  Mary, 
does  your  right  knee  tremble  and  you  can’t  stop  it?” 

“Dan,  Dan,”  cried  Mary,  seizing  his  right  knee  in 
both  her  hands,  “don’t  worry.  Don’t  worry,  Dan.” 
She  began  to  rub  the  knee.  “That’s  nothing.  My 
father  often  gets  it.  It’s  only  nerve  tension.  A 
nurse  out  of  the  Mater  Hospital  told  me  all  about  it. 
You  can  live  to  be  a hundred  with  it.  She  says 
it’s  due  to  tea  drinking.  But  . . . Dan,  why  are 

265 


THE  INFORMER 

you  so  hard  and  cynical  all  of  a sudden  about  every- 
thing? Can’t  you  give  it  all  up  and  settle  down? 
You  said  you ” 

“Settle  down?”  cried  Gallagher,  jumping  to  his 
feet  and  looking  at  her  fiercely,  as  if  she  had  sug- 
gested a heinous  crime.  “Give  it  up!  How  do  you 
mean?  Pooh!  Women,  women,  women!  You  don’t 
understand  that  it’s  my  life.  It’s  my  life,  I say. 
You  might  as  well  tell  me  stop  breathing  and  . . . 
After  all  . . .”  He  seemed  to  think  of  something 
startlingly  unexpected,  for  he  looked  at  her  with 
open  lips.  He  continued,  shyly  almost,  in  a scarcely 
audible  voice,  as  if  he  were  soliloquizing.  “After  all, 
you  weren’t  affected  the  way  I expected  you  would 
be.  You  would  never  understand.  You  would 
never  join  me  in  the  way  . . . Hm!  I see.” 

“Now  what  have  I said,  Dan?”  she  whispered 
nervously,  biting  her  fingers. 

She  was  terrified  that  she  had  lost  him  . . . yes, 
in  a way,  strangely  enough,  she  was  terrified  at  losing 
his  love,  as  if  she  had  him  securely  in  her  possession, 
as  a loving  husband  for  a long  time  . . . that  she 
had  lost  him  by  some  foolish  phrase. 

“Nothing,”  he  muttered  solidly. 

He  crossed  his  hands  on  his  chest  and  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  once  more.  It  was  a long  time 
until  he  spoke.  She  tried  to  get  enraged  with  him 
and  could  not  do  so.  She  began  to  pity  herself. 

“It’s  waiting  like  this  that’s  hard,”  he  said  sud- 
266 


THE  INFORMER 

denly  in  a whisper.  “I  don’t  mind  dying.  It’s  not 
that  I mind.  It’s  waiting  without  a chance  of  know- 
ing what’s  going  to  happen.  They  talk  of  the  brav- 
ery of  those  louts  that  get  the  V.C.  What  are  they 
but  stupid  carrot  heads?  Theirs  is  the  bravery  of 
the  dull-witted  ox.  A man  must  be  intelligent  to  be 
brave.  It’s  only  the  intelligent  man  that  can  visu- 
alize danger.  If  he  is  brave  he  never  seeks  danger, 
but  he  seeks  dangerous  methods  of  life.  You  see 
the  difference?  Well,  it  doesn’t  matter  anyway.  I 
had  this  all  worked  out  a long  time  ago  so  I don’t 
need  to  discuss  it  very  much.  But  this  is  the  point 
I have  to  explain  now.  There  is  no  danger  in  open 
warfare.  There’s  merely  death,  and  death  is  not 
dangerous.  The  Russians  proved  that.  Not  re- 
cently, but  in  Bielinsky’s  time.  That  is,  of  course, 
they  proved  it  in  relation  to  their  own  needs.  But 
according  to  my  own  calculations  and  discoveries, 
death  brings  us  back  into  the  great  consciousness  of 
the  Universe,  which  is  eternal.  Therefore  death, 
properly  speaking,  is  not  death.  It  is  a second  stage 
of  birth.  No,  that’s  quite  wrong.  I can  see  where 
that  would  lead  me.  There  is  neither  birth  nor 
death.  But  . . . All  that’s  out  of  the  count.  We 
have  to  tackle  a minor  question.  Obviously  it’s  a 
minor  question.  Now  that’s  better.  Now  we  see 
death  is  not  a danger.  But  defeat  is  a danger.  De- 
feat by  one’s  enemies.  Not  defeat  by  one’s  friends. 
But  of  course  there  are  no  friends.  Friends  is  a 

267 


THE  INFORMER 

bourgeois  word.  It  has  no  longer  any  meaning.  So 
defeat  in  the  true  sense  means  defeat  by  one’s 
enemies.  It’s  synonymous.  Well,  I face  defeat. 
Therefore.  . . Suddenly  he  waved  his  right  hand 
in  a circular  fashion  above  his  head  and  then  pointed 
it  fiercely  at  the  wall  to  his  left.  “It’s  waiting  like 
this  that’s  hard,”  he  cried  fiercely.  “I’ve  been 
out  with  a gun  many  a time.  I’ve  been  shot  at. 
I have  two  holes  in  me.  That’s  nothing.  You  don’t 
know  what’s  happening  because  you  become  an  an- 
imal. But  waiting  is  different.  You  are  in  com- 
mand. That’s  different.  A brain,  a mind,  a great 
eye,  probing  the  unknown.  But  . . .”  He  stopped 
suddenly  and  tittered  audibly  in  his  throat. 

“Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph  protect  me,”  Mary  be-1 
gan  to  murmur  rapidly  to  herself.  She  shut  her  eyes 
and  tried  to  think  of  Heaven.  Her  mind  had  sud- 
denly become  void  of  all  sense  of  knowledge  and 
emotion.  She  felt  an  intense  cold  in  every  pore  of 
her  flesh.  As  she  rambled  through  the  prayer  over 
and  over  again  with  her  lips,  a ridiculous  rigmarole 
of  a song  went  through  her  mind  with  a tintillating 
sound,  about,  “Piping  Tim  of  Galway.” 

He  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  form,  bent  towards 
her  and  kissed  her  coldly  on  the  forehead.  His  cold 
lips  remained  on  her  forehead  for  three  seconds. 
Then  he  sighed  and  got  to  his  feet  again.  He  must 
keep  in  movement.  He  must  keep  talking.  He 
could  not  stop  his  brain  from  thinking  at  an  enor- 

268 


THE  INFORMER 

mous  rate  and  the  only  way  to  relieve  the  congestion 
was  by  talking  aloud.  The  formation  and  enuncia- 
tion of  the  words  deflected  a fraction  of  the  brain 
forces  and  liquidated  them.  Faster,  faster,  wilder, 
wilder  he  must  talk,  to  keep  pace  with  the  tremen- 
dous speed  of  his  heated  brain. 

“Where  is  he  now?”  he  whispered  with  a kind  of 
cackle  in  his  throat  that  was  like  a laugh.  “Where 
is  he  now?  Why  can’t  we  see  with  the  mind,  long 
distances?  How  very  stupid  I am  after  all  in  spite 
of  my  philosophy.  He  might  be  in  the  police  station 
at  this  very  moment,  with  a big,  fat  sergeant  taking 
down  his  statement.”  He  shuddered  and  bit  his  lip. 
“Good  Lord  Mary!  If  you  only  knew  what  a state- 
ment he  could  make.  Ha!  ha!  He  and  Francis  are 
the  only  two  men  in  the  Organization  who  could 
tell  anything  worth  while.  And  Francis  is  dead.” 

He  paused.  Mary  bit  her  teeth,  dispelled  the 
tintillating  rigmarole  of  a song  and  began  another 
prayer,  one  to  Our  Lady  of  Perpetual  Succour. 

“Ye  see,  Gypo  was  so  useful.  There  were  things 
he  could  do  that  no  other  man  could  do.  Not  so 
much  by  his  immense  strength,  as  on  account  of 
his  particular  mental  qualities.  It’s  easy  to  get  as 
strong  a man,  but  a mind  like  that  is  hard  to  find.  I 
doubt  if  there  is  another.  He  was  priceless.  Damn 
him.  He’s  a superhuman  monster.  Why  did  I say 
was  before?  He  is.  He  is.  That’s  the  worst  of 
it.  I wish  he  . . . The  government  would  give  a 

269 


THE  INFORMER 

million  pounds  for  that  statement.  Good  Lordl  I 
never  thought  Gypo  could  turn  informer.  It  must 
have  been  a mistake.  I couldn’t  be  wrong  about 
him.  Some  mistake.  Sure.  He  isn’t  the  type.  Sure. 
I swear  he  isn’t.  How  could  he  be?  He  responds 
to  me  like,  like  a needle  to  a magnet.  Then  how  did 
he  inform?  On  his  own  pal  too ! That’s  the  strange 
thing  about  it.  I’ve  been  studying  him  for  eight 
years  and  he  never  showed  any  signs  of  personal 
initiative.  Never  once.  I shouldn’t  have  dropped 
him  for  six  months.  But  of  course  I had  to  keep  up 
respect  for  the  rules  of  the  Organization.  Good 
Lord!”  he  cried  pathetically,  looking  at  the  ceiling 
and  wringing  his  hands  almost  in  despair,  “I’m  alone 
with  nobody  to  help  me.  Mary,  there’s  nobody  to 
give  me  advice.  Why  did  nobody  warn  me  against 
expelling  Gypo?  What?” 

He  paused.  She  did  not  reply.  She  shuddered 
and  did  not  look.  It  was  difficult  to  pray.  She  was 
so  tired.  And  it  was  terrifying  not  to  pray.  Then 
she  might  have  to  listen  to  him. 

Then  suddenly  she  was  startled  into  an  upright 
position,  with  her  eyes  staring  and  her  mouth  wide 
open.  Gallagher  had  uttered  a strange  sound. 
Then  he  ran  crouching  to  the  form.  He  hurled  him- 
self upon  it.  He  clutched  at  her  knees.  He  was 
looking  with  wild,  strained  eyes  at  a point  on  the 
wall.  He  jabbered  in  a dry  parched  voice. 

“There  he  is,  Mary.  I see  him.  I see  him.  I 
270 


THE  INFORMER 

see  the  sergeant  writing  it  down.  They  are  giving 
him  a drink.  D’ye  see  him,  Mary,  with  his  little  hat 
perched  at  the  back  of  his  head,  making  the  state- 
ment? D’ye  hear  him  say  my  name?  D’ye  hear 
him?” 

She  drew  his  head  towards  her  with  both  hands, 
trying  to  make  him  look  at  her  face,  trying  to  get 
his  staring  eyes  away  from  the  wall,  but  he  struggled 
against  her.  His  eyes  were  fixed  wildly  on  some 
point  in  the  wall.  He  writhed. 

Then  suddenly  he  sighed,  turned  towards  her  and 
smiled.  It  was  a natural,  healthy  smile.  His  eyes 
danced  humorously  as  he  smiled.  His  terror  had 
passed  away,  giving  place  to  a momentary  joy.  He 
felt  hilarious,  like  a woman  drunk  with  wine.  He 
took  Mary  suddenly  into  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
He  tickled  her  neck  playfully  with  his  fingers,  laugh- 
ing all  the  time. 

But  she  struggled  to  free  herself,  panting.  He 
loosed  her  and  stopped  laughing,  looking  at  her  in 
surprise. 

“Did  I frighten  you,  Mary?”  he  said  casually. 
“That’s  all  right.  I often  get  a fit  of  the  blues  like 
that.  Don’t  worry.  Did  you  think  I was  mad?” 
he  added  with  a little  laugh. 

“Oh,  you’re  all  right  now,  Dan,  ha,  ha.” 

She  was  trying  to  laugh  to  cheer  herself,  but  she 
made  a poor  job  of  it. 

“Sure  I am,  Mary.  As  right  as  rain.  Every- 
271 


THE  INFORMER 

thing  will  be  all  right.  Of  course  it  will.  Don’t 
worry.” 

There  was  a long  silence.  They  sat  close  to- 
gether, looking  at  the  ground. 

“Tell  me,  Dan,”  whispered  Mary  awkwardly, 
“did  you  see  anything  that  time?  When  you  were 
looking  at  the  wall?  Did  you  see  anything?  Tell 
me,  quick.  It’s  such  a queer  place,  this.  I think 
there  are  devils  in  it.” 

“Damn  it!”  snapped  Gallagher.  “Why  did  you 
bring  the  subject  up  again,  when  I want  to  forget  it? 
Devils!  Huh!  Devils!” 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  and  took  two  paces  forward, 
stretching  his  hands  out  over  his  head  with  peculiar 
intensity,  like  a man  with  a rheumatic  twinge  in  his 
shoulder  blades.  Then  he  shrugged  himself  and 
rattled  off  with  startling  suddenness,  in  a quite  calm 
voice,  cheerful  and  debonair. 

“You  are  right,”  he  said,  “after  all,  in  asking  the 
question.  I should  have  explained  at  the  time,”  he 
yawned,  “what  I meant  by  seeing  him.  Of  course  I 
was  speaking  figuratively.  There  are  no  such  things 
as  devils,  at  least  not  supernatural  creations,  as  the 
current  superstition  understands  them  to  be.  The 
only  devils  to  be  afraid  of  are  human  devils.  I know 
numbers  of  them.  They  are  real  enough.  But  they 
wear  sheep’s  clothing.  Respectable,  law-abiding  fel- 
lows. I’ll  see  them  again  in  a few  hours,  if  Gypo 
gets  to  the  police  station  with  his  story.  They’ll 

272 


THE  INFORMER 

drawl  out  slowly  their  sentence  on  me.  Ha! 
Pretty  boys.  And  here  I am  doing  nothing  while 
they  are  ...” 

He  moved  rapidly  up  and  down  again,  clutching 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  jerking  his  body  about 
and  crunching  his  teeth. 

“I  am  alone,”  he  continued.  “Alone.  I stand 
alone.  They  can  easily  buy  off  the  rest  of  the  Ex- 
ecutive Committee.  They’ll  be  only  too  glad  to  get 
away  free,  with  their  lives,  at  any  cost,  if  it  comes 
To  a fight.  If  evidence  is  found  against  me,  suf- 
ficient to  prove  certain  things,  they  can  strike  at  me 
with  impunity.  My  own  rank  and  file  would  be  the 
first  to  stone  me  to  death.  Their  damn  supersti- 
tions always  stand  in  the  way  of  revolutionary  be- 
liefs. They  talk  at  International  Head-quarters 
about  romanticism  and  leftism  and  all  sorts  of  freak 
notions.  What  do  they  know  about  the  peculiar 
type  of  hog  mind  that  constitutes  an  Irish  peasant?” 

“How  dare  you?”  cried  Mary  indignantly. 

He  looked  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  flashing.  She 
sat  erect  on  the  form.  He  had  never  seen  a woman 
wild  and  imperious  like  that.  He  smiled  weakly. 

“Sorry  to  hurt  your  feelings,”  he  said  cynically. 
“But  I’m  beyond  that.  Pish!  I’ve  got  the  whole 
country  in  a fine  net  and  I’m  within  the  law  until 
they  find  something  definite  to  go  upon.  I can  snap 
my  fingers  at  the  lot  of  you.”  He  grew  fierce  and 
arrogant.  “You  and  your  patriotic  ideas!  I was 

273 


THE  INFORMER 

wrong  about  you.  I don’t  want  you.  I never 
wanted  you.  Do  you  hear?  I snap  my  fingers  at 
the  whole  world.  That  hulking  swine  can  do  his 
best.  I will  drain  his  blood  before  dawn.  Mark 
my  words.  He’ll  never  reach  the  police  station. 
My  destiny  stands  against  him.  And ” 

Just  then  the  sentry’s  challenge  rang  out.  Galla- 
gher immediately  stood  stock  still  and  listened. 
Then  he  rushed  into  the  passage,  drawing  his  pistol 
and  muttering  something.  Two  men  were  hurrying 
down  the  stairs.  The  first  of  them  came  up  smartly 
to  Gallagher  and  clicked  his  heels. 

He  was  a small,  slight  man,  with  hawk’s  eyes  and 
a long,  pointed,  curved  nose.  He  wore  a loose  rain- 
coat and  a check  cap.  He  was  Billy  Burton,  an 
Insurance  Agent,  a captain  in  the  Revolutionary  ' 
Organization.  Gallagher  shook  hands  with  him" 
eagerly. 

“Glad  they  fount!  you  in,  Billy,”  he  said. 
“You’re  the  very  man  I want.” 

He  led  Burton  into  the  guardroom  and  rapidly 
explained  the  situation.  Then  he  detailed  a plan. 
He  detailed  the  plan  coolly  and  minutely  as  if  he  had 
spent  weeks  at  it. 

Burton  listened,  blinking  his  little  eyes,  sniffing, 
biting  his  nails,  fondling  the  butt  of  his  automatic 
pistol  in  his  breast  pocket. 

Over  on  the  form,  Flynn  was  sitting,  with  his 
broken  jaw  swathed  in  a red  silk  handkerchief.  He 

274 


THE  INFORMER 

sat  impassively,  inscrutably  communing  with  him- 
self. He  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  his  surround- 
ings, with  his  mind  fixed  immutably  on  some  infinite 
problem. 

The  only  sounds  in  the  room  were  the  drip,  drip 
of  the  water  from  the  many  roofs  and  the  patter  of 
Gallagher’s  voice. 

His  voice  was  again  cold,  hard,  dominating,  vital. 


275 


CHAPTER  XVI 


At  a quarter  to  four  the  drizzling  rain 
ceased.  A sharp  bustling  wind  arose.  It 
came  screaming  down  from  the  mountains 
upon  Dublin.  It  was  a hard,  mountainous  wind,  a 
lean,  sulky,  snowy  wind,  that  rushed  through  the 
sleeping  city  savagely,  so  that  even  the  drops  of  rain 
on  the  muddy  sidewalks  leaned  over  before  it,  with 
frills  on  them. 

The  clouds  arose,  their  hanging  rumps  cut  away 
by  the  newborn  wind.  They  hung  high  up  in  the 
heavens,  gashed  and  torn,  with  a sour  expression  on 
their  grey,  slattern  bodies.  Here  and  there  a rent 
came  in  the  dishevelled  panorama  of  cloud  and  the 
sky  appeared,  blue  and  chaste  and  a long  way  off. 

This  change  in  the  mood  of  nature  occurred  when 
Gypo  was  bounding  away  from  the  Bogey  Hole, 
trembling  shakily  with  excess  of  energy.  He  ran 
through  a short,  narrow  lane,  so  narrow  that  his 
shoulders  grazed  either  side  as  he  dashed  through. 
He  crossed  a thoroughfare  in  four  strides,  casting  a 
look  on  either  side  as  he  leaped  across.  He  saw  a 
sloppy  roadway  on  one  side,  with  a watchman’s  glow- 
ing brazier  at  the  far  end  and  on  the  other  side  a 

276 


THE  INFORMER 

hill.  Tall  tenement  houses  lined  the  thoroughfare, 
their  battered  old  walls  rambling  up  towards  the  sky, 
their  squalor  hidden  by  the  majesty  of  the  night. 

He  fled  across  the  road  and  entered  a dark  arch- 
way. Then  he  bumped  suddenly  against  an  old  cart 
and  went  head-over-heels  with  a smothered  exclam- 
ation. The  concussion  and  weight  of  his  body  pro- 
pelled the  cart  a distance  of  three  yards  on  its  crazy 
wheels,  with  the  shafts  scraping  along  the  ground. 
He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  was  about  to  rush  away 
again,  when  a human  voice,  coming  from  beneath 
him,  made  him  stand  still.  He  looked  down  fiercely. 
It  was  only  some  homeless  derelict,  who  used  the 
archway  and  the  cart  as  a house  and  a bed. 

“The  curse  of — ” began  a cracked,  shivering 
voice. 

Gypo  was  gone,  with  a clatter  of  boots,  over  the 
cobblestones  of  the  archway.  He  debouched  into  a 
wide  street  of  new,  red-brick  houses.  He  gripped  a 
wall  and  peered  around  him,  panting  for  breath, 
wild  with  the  excitement  of  his  escape. 

It  was  then  that  he  noticed  the  wind,  the  lifting 
clouds,  and  the  far-away  sky.  He  smelt  the  wind  as 
he  breathed  in  great  gasps  through  his  nostrils,  to 
ease  the  pressure  on  his  heart  and  lungs.  Then  sud- 
denly, he  longed  for  the  mountains  and  the  wide 
undulating  plains  and  the  rocky  passes  and  the  swift- 
flowing rivers,  away  to  the  south  in  his  own  country. 
Freedom  and  solitude  and  quiet,  with  only  the  wind 

277 


THE  INFORMER 

coming  through  the  bog  heather!  Hiding  in  some 
rocky  fastness  of  the  mountains,  listening  to  the 
wind ! Away,  away,  where  nobody  could  catch  him! 
To  the  mountains!  To  the  mountains!  Dark  blue 
mountains  with  bulging  sides  and  little  sheep  roam- 
ing over  them,  that  he  could  catch  and  kill! 

A wild  ferocity  of  joy  overcame  him.  He  stared 
with  dilated  nostrils  ahead  into  the  rim  of  the  sky 
above  the  houses,  towards  the  south.  He  gazed,  as 
if  he  were  measuring  the  distance  between  him  and 
the  mountains,  so  as  to  take  a giant  leap,  that  would 
carry  him  at  once  into  the  heart  of  their  solitude. 

Then  he  bent  down,  looking  ahead  intently.  He 
spat  on  his  hands.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  to 
settle  his  hat.  But  his  hat  was  not  there.  His  skull 
was  bare  and  damp.  He  felt  all  over  it  and  found  a 
patch  of  clotted  blood  at  the  rear  base,  where  it  had 
been  kicked  during  the  struggle  in  the  inquiry  room. 
He  took  no  notice  of  the  blood,  but  kept  feeling  all 
over  the  skull,  with  a dazed  look  in  his  eyes,  mutter- 
ing: 

“What  am  I to  do  without  a hat?  I had  it  this 
two  years.” 

In  the  same  dazed  way  he  felt  all  over  his  body. 
He  uttered  a little  shout.  He  had  found  it  in  his 
trousers  pocket,  where  he  had  stuffed  it,  during  the 
inquiry,  when  he  heard  that  ominous  ring  in  Gal- 
lagher’s voice.  He  clapped  it  on  to  his  skull,  all 
wrinkled  and  tattered  and  tiny.  He  beat  it  with  his 

278 


THE  INFORMER 

palms,  as  if  it  were  a mattress.  Then,  with  a gentle 
sigh,  he  darted  away,  headed  due  south  for  the 
mountains. 

He  ran  recklessly,  without  thinking  of  the  way,  or 
taking  any  precautions.  It  was  the  slum  district 
which  he  knew  so  well,  the  district  that  enclosed  Titt 
Street,  the  brothels,  the  Bogey  Hole,  tenement 
houses,  churches,  pawnshops,  public-houses,  ruins, 
filth,  crime,  beautiful  women,  resplendent  idealism 
in  damp  cellars,  saints  starving  in  garrets,  the  most 
lurid  examples  of  debauchery  and  vice,  all  living 
thigh  to  thigh,  breast  to  breast,  in  that  foetid  morass 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Liffey.  He  ran  through 
narrow  streets  and  great,  wide,  yawning  streets,  lanes 
and  archways,  streets  patched  and  buttressed,  with 
banks  of  earth  from  fallen  houses  almost  damming 
them  in  places,  pavements  strewn  with  offal,  sod- 
dened  by  the  rain. 

He  never  made  a mistake.  He  was  headed  for  the 
mountains.  The  smell  of  the  mountains  was  in  his 
nostrils,  flooding  his  lungs,  making  his  heart  pant 
with  longing. 

At  last  he  entered  Beresford  Place  and  saw  the 
river.  Instinctively  he  paused,  leaning  against  a 
wall,  to  examine  the  Bridge.  He  gasped  and  trem- 
bled. 

Two  men  were  standing  at  the  near  side  of  the 
Butt  Bridge.  They  had  already  forestalled  him. 
He  listened.  He  toyed  with  a last  hope.  He  moved 

279 


THE  INFORMER 

cautiously  across  the  open  space,  to  reach  the  shelter 
of  the  ruins  of  the  Custom  House.  He  reached  it. 
He  peered  closer  at  the  men.  They  were  still  in- 
distinct. After  all,  they  might  be  robbers,  workmen, 
homeless  fellows  trying  to  pass  the  night,  students 
coming  from  the  brothels  and  having  a last  drunken 
argument  on  their  way  home.  He  crawled  nearer. 
Then  his  little  eyes  blinked  and  narrowed. 

One  of  the  men  crouched  against  the  biting  wind. 
Gypo  recognized  the  crouching  figure  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  It  was  Mulholland.  And  the 
other  man,  standing  stiff,  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, was  Peter  Hackett. 

Gypo’s  head  became  hot  and  stuffy.  His  eyes 
closed,  as  a sudden  pain  struck  him  in  the  forehead. 
He  had  an  impulse  to  rush  forward  at  the  two  men 
and  strangle  them.  But  he  did  not  move.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  the  two  of  them,  in  spite  of  their  being 
armed.  He  did  not  fear  their  guns.  But  they  were 
part  of  the  Organization.  The  Organization  was  at 
the  Bridge.  It  had  got  there  before  him.  He  could 
not  pass.  Gallagher’s  cold,  glassy  eyes  were  on  the 
Bridge.  He  could  not  pass. 

The  smell  of  the  mountains  left  his  lungs  and  his 
nostrils.  The  wind  still  blew  about  his  crouching 
body.  But  it  had  lost  its  odour.  Now  it  was  only 
sharp  and  biting,  an  enemy  that  drove  him  back- 
wards, skulking  and  dumbfounded.  Where  was  it 
driving  him?  Where  was  it  driving  him? 

280 


THE  INFORMER 

He  crouched  away  before  it,  without  taking  coun- 
sel with  himself,  with  his  head  hanging  limply  on  his 
breast.  He  crouched  across  the  open  space  and 
entered  a roadway  that  led  northwards.  There  was 
nothing  within  him  with  which  he  could  take  counsel. 
Within  him  he  was  blank  and  dark,  like  a bottomless 
abyss  filled  with  thick  fog.  His  hulking  figure  was 
driven  by  the  wind  to  some  boundless  region  where 
there  was  no  shelter.  He  was  driven  by  the  wind  to 
some  boundless  region  where  everything  was  col- 
oured a dim  grey,  amorphous,  terrible. 

The  vision  of  an  abyss,  grey,  without  shape, 
swayed  before  his  eyes  as  he  strode  northwards, 
moving  uncertainly,  staggering  slightly,  without 
guidance.  His  footsteps  became  slower.  He  came 
to  a halt  and  looked  about  him  curiously.  He  was 
under  a railway  bridge  that  crossed  the  street  side- 
ways over  his  head,  encased  in  a black  covering.  A 
little  dark  laneway  opened  to  his  right.  He  walked 
three  paces  up  the  laneway  and  leaned  his  shoulder 
against  the  damp  wall. 

There  was  shelter  there.  The  wind  did  not  come 
in.  Only  an  odd  gust  swivelled  around  the  corner 
and  stirred  the  damp,  musty  air  for  a dying  moment. 
It  was  quiet  and  dark,  like  the  interior  of  a cave. 
He  sighed. 

Gradually  he  grew  composed.  He  grew  calm  and 
very  weary.  He  wanted  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep 
for  a long,  long  time.  There  was  no  use  struggling 

281 


THE  INFORMER 

any  farther.  He  was  alone.  The  darkness  of  the 
night  enveloped  him. 

“There’s  nobody  here,”  he  murmured  aloud. 

The  ground  was  a puddle.  The  walls  were  blank. 
He  felt  with  his  feet,  seeking  a dry  spot  to  lie  down. 
Everywhere  his  boot  sank  into  a puddle.  He  cursed 
and  moved  on  a pace.  He  felt  again  with  his  feet. 
Still  more  puddles.  He  moved  along  still  farther 
and  tried  again.  No  use.  Then  he  began  to  walk 
along  mechanically,  feeling  the  ground  at  intervals. 
Then  he  kept  walking  slowly  without  feeling  the 
ground.  He  had  forgotten  about  lying  down. 

He  came  to  the  end  of  the  lane  and  saw  a wide 
street  in  front  of  him.  He  halted  excitedly. 

“Where  am  I going?”  he  cried  aloud. 

-He  started  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  peered 
suspiciously  over  his  shoulder.  Of  course  there  was 
nobody  there.  Then  he  steadied  himself  and  tried 
to  think  of  where  he  was  and  what  had  happened. 
It  was  a terrific  struggle. 

Slowly  he  began  to  remember  recent  events.  Fact 
after  fact  came  prowling  into  his  brain.  Soon  the 
whole  series  of  events  stood  piled  there  in  a crazy 
heap.  Everything  rushed  towards  that  heap  with  in- 
creasing rapidity,  but  nothing  could  be  abstracted 
from  it.  It  was  just  as  if  the  facts  were  sinking  in  a 
puddle  and  disappearing.  It  was  utterly  impossible 
for  him  to  reason  out  a plan  of  action. 

“I  must  make  a plan,”  he  murmured  aloud. 

282 


THE  INFORMER 

In  answer  to  this  exhortation  came  a vision  of  Gal- 
lagher’s glittering  eyes.  They  fascinated  him.  He 
forgot  about  a plan.  A horde  of  things  crashed  to- 
gether in  his  brain  making  an  infernal  buzz.  He  lost 
control  of  himself  and  ran  about  under  the  archway, 
striking  out  with  his  hands  and  feet  madly,  trying  to 
fight  the  cargo  of  things  that  were  jammed  together 
in  his  brain.  It  was  that  insensate  rage  that  over- 
comes strong  men  at  times,  when  they  have  nothing 
upon  which  to  vent  their  fury,  no  physical  opponent. 

He  worked  madly  at  this  curious  exercise  for  fully 
five  minutes.  Then  he  stopped,  with  perspiration 
streaming  from  his  forehead.  He  felt  better.  His 
head  was  clear.  He  was  again  conscious  of  a grim 
determination  to  escape,  to  outwit  those  fellows  who 
were  on  the  Bridge.  An  idea  that  he  thought  amaz- 
ingly cunning  occurred  to  him,  an  idea  to  escape  to- 
wards the  south,  by  making  a wide  detour  towards 
the  north,  up  by  the  North  Circular  Road  to  Phoenix 
Park,  then  westwards  through  the  Park,  then  south- 
wards again  by  Dolphin’s  Barn.  He  was  toying 
with  the  route  pleasantly  when  he  was  suddenly 
interrupted  by  a sound  of  feet. 

Trup,  trap,  trup,  trap  . . . came  the  sound  of 
heavy  feet  coming  down  the  street  in  front  of  him. 
Two  policemen  on  their  beat  were  coming  along 
slowly,  rattling  door  chains  as  they  came.  Gypo’s 
heart  began  to  beat  with  terror.  He  thought  they 
were  looking  for  him.  In  his  bewilderment  he  could 

283 


THE  INFORMER 

not  understand  that  he  was  now  under  police  pro- 
tection,  an  informer.  He  forgot  that  he  had  only  to 
rush  up  to  them  and  say  that  the  Revolutionary 
Organization  had  condemned  him  to  death  and  were 
now  tracking  him,  in  order  to  be  taken  to  a police 
barracks,  into  safety.  On  the  contrary,  he  still  re- 
garded them  as  his  enemies.  His  mentality  had  not 
yet  accustomed  itself  to  the  change  that  his  going 
in  the  police-station  that  evening  had  wrought  in  his 
condition.  To  his  understanding  he  was  still  a 
revolutionary.  He  was  not  at  all  conscious  of  being 
an  informer,  or  a friend  of  law  and  order,  a protege 
of  the  police. 

He  bolted  headlong  out  of  the  laneway  and  clat- 
tered away  across  the  street.  He  wheeled  to  the 
right,  ran  ten  yards  and  then  dived  into  another  lane. 
He  continued  his  flight  without  stopping.  He  ran 
without  purpose,  without  guidance,  driven  north- 
wards by  panic  and  the  impossibility  of  thought. 
He  ran  headlong  in  all  directions,  into  a street,  down 
its  course,  then  to  the  left,  back  again  in  a parallel 
line,  down  once  more  the  street  he  had  left,  passing 
several  times  the  same  corner  in  his  mad  flight.  He 
ran  desperately,  as  if  he  were  chasing  some  elusive 
sprite  that  delighted  in  turning  on  its  own  tracks. 
He  floundered  through  pools.  He  struggled  on  his 
hands  and  knees  over  waste  plots.  He  crushed  vio- 
lently through  holes  in  torn  walls.  He  climbed  over 
piles  of  bricks,  over  walls,  jumped  into  backyards 

284 


THE  INFORMER 

and  then  climbed  back  again  into  another  street.  He 
was  scratched,  covered  with  mud,  dripping  wet.  His 
eyes  were  bloodshot. 

Then  suddenly  a clock  struck  the  half-hour  close 
by  him.  It  was  half-past  four.  He  stopped  dead, 
attracted  by  the  tolling  of  the  clock.  It  was  not  the 
sound  but  the  remembrance  it  brought.  He  knew 
that  clock.  It  was  near  Katie  Fox’s  house  where  he 
used  to  sleep.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  a narrow 
lane,  with  his  legs  wide  apart  and  his  chest  and 
shoulders  thrust  forward  listening  to  it.  His  lips 
were  opened  wide. 

He  stood,  like  an  uncouth,  half-formed  thing, 
alone  in  the  half-grey  shadows  of  the  night,  wonder- 
ing at  strange  things. 

“It’s  two  turns  from  here,”  he  murmured,  “first  to 
the  left,  then  to  the  right.  She  should  be  in  be  now. 
That  must  be  three  or  four  o’clock.” 

Now  he  moved  carefully,  listening  for  sounds  and 
planting  his  feet  lightly,  close  to  the  side  of  the  lane. 
He  turned  to  the  left,  went  down  fifty  yards  and  then 
turned  to  the  right.  He  entered  a kind  of  circular 
square,  a crescent,  with  a church  standing  in  the 
middle.  He  moved  around  the  crescent  until  he 
reached  the  other  side  of  the  church.  There,  at  the 
corner  of  a little  cul-de-sac,  was  the  house  in  which 
Katie  Fox  had  a room,  about  fifteen  yards  away  from 
the  church. 

All  the  houses  in  the  little  square  were  tenement 
285 


THE  INFORMER 

houses,  old,  dusty  and  grey,  tattered,  sordid,  with 
broken  panes  in  their  windows.  Nearly  all  the  street 
doors  were  ajar.  There  was  nothing  to  steal  within. 

Gypo  deferentially  tipped  his  hat  to  the  church  as 
he  passed  it.  He  entered  the  doorway  of  Katie  Fox’s 
house.  The  hallway  was  pitch  black.  He  stood  for 
a few  moments  peering  around  in  the  darkness. 
Then  he  saw  a night-light  on  the  first  landing.  He 
recognized  it  as  the  light  placed  there  every  evening 
by  Mrs.  Delaney,  who  had  become  a religious  maniac 
since  her  son  was  killed  in  the  revolution  of  1916. 
He  had  been  killed  while  he  was  running  along  the 
streets,  wounded,  crying  out  for  shelter. 

“If  he  ever  comes  home  at  night,”  whispered  Mrs. 
Delaney  confidentially  to  everybody,  “he’ll  see  the 
light  burnin’  an’  he’ll  know  I’m  in.  God  is  good  to 
His  own  people  an’  He’ll  look  after  me  Johnny.” 

Gypo  felt  comforted  at  seeing  the  night-light.  He 
moved  noiselessly  up  the  stairs  until  he  reached  it. 
When  he  was  passing  it,  rounding  the  angle  of  the 
stairs,  he  paused,  with  his  hand  on  the  wooden  banis- 
ister  and  looked  at  it.  For  some  reason  or  other  he 
tiptoed  towards  it,  leaned  out  when  he  was  within 
two  feet  of  it,  and  blew  it  out.  Then  he  started  and 
looked  about  him  wildly.  It  was  pitch  dark  again. 

“That’s  better,”  he  said  with  a little  sigh. 

He  mounted  the  stairs  steadily.  They  remained 
good  until  he  reached  the  third  floor.  Then  he  had 
to  move  up  a narrow,  rickety,  broken  stairs  to  the  top 

286 


THE  INFORMER 

floor,  where  Katie  Fox  had  a room.  He  made  an 
awful  noise,  but  it  disturbed  nobody.  He  heard  a 
child  crying  when  he  got  near  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
The  child  belonged  to  Tim  Flanagan,  an  unemployed 
man,  who  occupied  the  opposite  room  to  Katie  Fox 
on  the  top  landing.  He  lived  there  with  his  wife  and 
three  children.  The  baby  had  the  measles  and  the 
other  two  children  were  awake.  One  child  was 
laughing.  Gypo  could  distinguish  Flanagan’s  weak, 
timorous  voice,  trying  to  soothe  the  children. 

Gypo  stood  outside  the  door  to  the  left,  Katie 
Fox’s  door.  He  listened.  A shaft  of  light  streamed 
through  the  keyhole  and  through  a large,  round  hole 
in  the  bottom  of  the  door.  A large  piece  of  the  door 
had  been  gnawed  away  by  a stray  dog  that  Katie 
Fox  brought  home  one  night.  He  bit  his  way  out  of 
the  room  as  soon  as  he  got  a meal.  Gypo  listened. 
Katie  Fox  was  talking  within.  Gypo  knocked. 

“Who’s  that?” 

“It’s  only  me,  Katie.  Open  the  door.” 

“Mother  o’  Mercy,”  she  screeched,  “it’s  his  ghost. 
It’s  his  ghost,  Louisa.  Louisa,  will  ye  hide  me  some- 
where, for  God’s  sake!” 

“Ghost  yer  gran’mother,”  came  a cracked,  old 
voice.  “Get  up  an’  open  the  door  will  ye,  till  we 
see  what  he  wants.” 

“No,  no — ” began  Katie’s  voice  again. 

Gypo  put  his  shoulder  to  the  door,  burst  the  piece 
of  string  that  fastened  it  on  the  inside  to  a nail  in 

287 


THE  INFORMER 

the  wall,  and  flung  the  door  open  wide.  He  stalked 
into  the  room. 

At  first  the  whole  room  appeared  to  be  a blue  bank 
of  fog.  Then  the  blue  mist  dissipated  gradually. 
The  room  assumed  proportions.  Things  swam  out 
of  the  mist  towards  him  gracefully,  in  the  order  of 
their  importance.  First  came  the  lamp.  It  was 
placed  on  the  black,  wooden  mantelpiece  over  the 
fireplace.  It  was  an  ordinary  tin  paraffin  lamp, 
painted  red.  The  chimney  was  three-parts  black. 
Next  came  the  fireplace.  There  was  a huge,  open 
grate,  with  a turf  fire  burning  in  it.  The  fire  was 
more  like  the  remains  of  a funeral  pyre,  because  the 
ashes  had  accumulated  for  weeks.  The  flaming  peat 
sods  lay  stretched  like  fallen  logs  on  the  top  of  the 
great  pile  of  yellow  ashes.  Next  came  the  bed,  with 
Louisa  Cummins  lying  in  one  corner  of  it. 

The  bed  was  so  huge  that  it  might  be  mistaken  for 
anything  were  it  not  supported  by  four  thick 
wooden  posts  and  had  a canopy  over  it,  at  the  head, 
after  the  fashion  of  those  beds  that  are  called  in  Irish 
country  places  “Archbishops’  Beds.”  The  bed- 
clothes were  indescribable.  Everything  was  pitched 
on  to  the  bed  and  everything  stayed  there.  Louisa 
Cummins  lived  in  the  bed  most  of  the  day.  She  had 
done  so  for  eight  years,  since  she  became  “bedridden” 
as  the  result  of  “injuries”  received  from  the  police, 
one  night  she  was  arrested  on  a charge  of  trafficking 
in  immorality.  She  was  quite  strong  and  healthy. 

288 


THE  INFORMER 

She  did  all  her  work  in  bed.  The  blankets  were 
gathered  about  her  bulky  person  in  the  far  corner, 
near  the  wall.  In  the  other  corner,  Katie  Fox’s 
corner,  there  was  a couple  or  so  of  tattered  blankets. 
The  foot  of  the  bed  was  heaped  with  junk  of  all  sorts, 
from  a notched  mug,  out  of  which  the  old  lady  drank 
her  tea,  to  a statue  of  Saint  Joseph  that  hung  on 
the  bed-post,  suspended  from  a thick  nail  by  a rough, 
knotted  cord.  The  cord  was  around  the  statue’s 
neck,  in  a noose.  The  statue  was  not  suspended 
there  out  of  crude  respect,  as  might  be  supposed. 
It  was  hung  there  as  a blasphemous  protest  against 
the  incompetence  of  the  saint.  Four  years  before 
she  had  made  a Novena  to  Saint  Joseph,  requesting  a 
cure  for  muscular  rheumatism,  and  because  her  re- 
quest was  not  granted  she  hung  up  the  statue  by 
the  neck. 

When  Gypo’s  eyes  found  her  through  the  fog,  she 
was  hidden  to  the  chin  beneath  a pile  of  blankets  and 
clothes  of  all  sorts,  up  against  the  wall.  She  lay  on 
her  side,  with  her  white,  shrivelled  head  ensconced 
in  a grey  pillow,  that  had  no  case  to  cover  it.  The 
feathers  protruded  from  the  pillow.  The  old  wo- 
man’s white  hair  was  strewn  about  the  pillow  and  the 
bed-clothes,  like  strands  of  seaweed  floating  on  the 
surface  of  a shallow  sea  at  low  tide.  Her  mouth  was 
wide  open,  in  an  ogreish  fashion,  displaying  red  gums 
and  four  yellow  teeth,  cropping  up  at  unequal  dis- 
tances along  her  jaws;  four,  crooked,  yellow  fangs. 

289 


THE  INFORMER 

Her  eyes  alone  showed  life  and  intelligence.  They 
were  small,  fierce,  blue  eyes,  blazing  with  cunning 
and  avarice. 

Her  body,  hidden  beneath  the  clothes,  resembled  a 
mountain  that  had  been  reduced  to  a shapeless  pulp 
by  concussion. 

Gypo  surveyed  her  without  any  emotion.  Then  he 
looked  around  for  Katie.  He  saw  her  standing  in 
the  corner  behind  the  door.  She  was  still  dressed 
as  he  had  met  her  in  the  public-house  early  in  the 
evening.  But  her  dress  had  become  dishevelled. 
Her  face  had  changed.  It  had  changed  in  a strange 
manner.  It  had  lost  the  careworn,  pinched  expres- 
sion. Her  eyes  were  no  longer  tired.  Her  face  was 
flushed  and  full.  The  skin  was  loose.  The  mouth 
was  firm,  with  a voluptuous  softness  in  the  lips. 
Her  eyes  flashed  bright.  They  had  the  calm  aggres- 
siveness of  healthy,  energetic  women,  who  are  pass- 
ing from  one  success  to  another,  the  calm,  aggressive 
flash  of  satisfied  desire  and  of  vaulting  ambition. 
While,  in  spite  of  all  that,  her  hands,  clutching  her 
throat,  trembled  in  apparent  terror,  in  contradiction 
to  the  repose  and  vitality  of  her  face.  Her  feet, 
too,  danced  spasmodically. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  ye,  Katie?”  said  Gypo. 
“What’s  that  ye  were  sayin’  about  me  ghost?” 

He  spoke  in  a hoarse,  morose  whisper. 

“God!”  exclaimed  Katie. 

290 


THE  INFORMER 

She  took  her  hands  away  from  her  throat  and 
clasped  them  behind  her  back,  with  the  movement  of 
one  offered  an  objectionable  thing.  Then  she  fled  to 
the  fire  at  great  speed.  She  leaned  her  back  against 
the  wall  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace  and  gaped  at 
Gypo.  She  motioned  to  him  with  her  head. 

“Shut  that  door,”  she  said  in  a whisper.  “Shut 
the  door  and  come  in.” 

Gypo  turned  to  the  door  silently  and  began  to  tie 
the  two  pieces  of  broken  string  to  fasten  it  once 
more. 

“Where  have  ye  ben?”  she  whispered.  “O,  Lord! 
Ye  put  the  heart  crosswise  in  me.” 

Gypo  tied  the  door  and  stalked  slowly  and  quietly 
to  the  hearth.  He  stood  still,  glanced  towards  the 
old  woman  and  then  looked  with  open  lips  at  Katie. 

“They’re  after  me,  Katie,”  he  muttered  with  a 
shudder. 

There  was  a silence.  Gypo  shuddered  again  and 
sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire.  He  sat  on  the  floor, 
with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  stretching  out 
his  hands  to  the  blaze. 

Katie  looked  at  him  with  glittering  eyes.  She 
stood  against  the  wall,  motionless.  Her  face  had 
very  white  beneath  her  crumpled  red  hat.  Her  eyes 
glittered.  Her  upper  lip  was  gathered  together, 
frilled. 

The  old  woman  in  the  bed  glanced  from  Gypo  to 
291 


THE  INFORMER 

Katie  and  from  Katie  to  Gypo.  Her  eyes  danced 
with  merriment.  She  kept  cuddling  herself,  as  if  in 
an  ecstasy  of  enjoyment. 

“What  are  ye  talkin’  about?”  said  Katie  at  length. 

“Th’  Organization  is  after  me,”  he  muttered  with- 
out looking  at  her.  “Commandant  Gallagher  is  goin’ 
to  plug  me.  I escaped  outa  the  cell  in  the  Bogey 
Hole.” 

“What  are  they  goin’  to  plug  ye  for?  In  the  name 
o’  goodness,  what  are  they  goin’  to  plug  ye  for?” 

Katie  Fox’s  voice  was  cold  and  passionless,  but 
Gypo  did  not  notice.  She  had  a queer,  thin  smile  on 
her  lips,  but  Gypo  did  not  look  at  her  face.  She  had 
a flashing  light  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  but  Gypo 
had  not  seen  it.  He  was  staring  dreamily  into  the 
fire.  He  was  tired  out  and  sleepy.  There  was  no 
use  keeping  watch  any  longer.  He  was  tired,  tired, 
tired.  Tired  and  sleepy.  What  was  the  use  of  keep- 
ing watch  any  longer?  Sleep,  sleep,  sleep.  Then 
he  would  go  straight  to  the  south.  He  would  rush 
to  the  south  with  the  wind,  through  all  obstacles. 
Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

“It  doesn’t  matter  what  they’re  after  me  for,”  he 
muttered. 

There  was  another  silence. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

“They  want  to  get  me  outa  their  way,”  he  mum- 
bled again.  “But  they’re  not  goin’  to  get  me. 
Katie,  I’m  goin’  to  flop  here  for  the  night.  I’ll  stay 

292 


THE  INFORMER 

till  to-morrow  night.  Then  I’m  going  south.  Here’s 
all  the  money  I have.” 

He  rummaged  in  his  trousers  pocket  and  brought 
out  on  his  palm  four  shillings  and  sixpence.  He 
handed  it  to  her.  She  approached  and  held  out  her 
right  hand  for  it,  with  a mincing  movement. 

“Gimme  that  money.  Gimme  that  money,” 
screamed  the  old  woman  from  the  bed.  She  strug- 
gled to  sit  up. 

“You  shut  up,  Louisa,”  growled  Gypo,  half  turning 
towards  her  across  his  shoulder.  “Shut  up  or  I’ll 
flatten  ye.” 

The  old  woman  collapsed,  grinning.  Then  she 
caught  up  a stick  that  lay  beside  her  in  the  bed.  She 
shook  the  stick  at  Katie  Fox. 

“She  robs  me,  she  robs  me,”  she  wailed,  in  a thin, 
cracked  voice. 

“I’ll  sleep  here  on  the  floor,  Katie,”  said  Gypo. 
“Hey,  Katie.  I’ll  sleep  here  in  front  o’  the  fire. 
Katie,  what’s  the  matter  with  ye?  Why  don’t  ye 
talk  to  me?”  Katie  burst  into  laughter.  She  had 
sat  down  on  a low  stool  to  the  left  of  the  fire  on  re- 
ceiving the  money.  Now  she  jumped  to  her  feet  and 
laughed.  It  was  a queer,  dry  laugh.  There  was  a 
dreamy  look  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  the  floor, 
wrapped  in  thought. 

“Are  ye  drunk  or  what’s  the  matter  with  ye?” 
grumbled  Gypo. 

“There’s  nothin’  at  all  the  matter  with  me,”  mur- 
293 


THE  INFORMER 

mured  Katie  dreamily,  still  looking  at  the  floor. 

Then  she  drew  in  a deep  breath  and  shrugged  her- 
self. She  became  alive  and  energetic  again,  wide 
awake,  with  piercing  eyes.  She  began  to  talk  at  an 
amazing  speed,  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  breasts. 

“Sure,  Gypo,”  she  said  in  a loud,  hilarious  voice, 
“ye  can  sleep  here  till  the  crack  o’  doom  if  ye  like. 
Sure  enough,  Connemara  Maggie  tole  me  about 
Bartly  Mulholland  cornin’  lookin’  for  ye.  She  came 
into  Biddy  Burke’s  as  drunk  as  a lord,  an’  she  outs 
with  a yarn  about  Bartly  puttin’  a gun  to  ye’  head  an’ 
drivin’  ye  up  the  street  in  front  o’  him.” 

“Yer  a liar,  she  didn’t,”  growled  Gypo,  starting 
slightly. 

“Maybe  she  didn’t  say  that  exactly,”  continued 
Katie,  “but ” 

“Did  she  give  ye  a quid  I gave  her  to  give  ye?” 

“A  quid?  Did  ye  give  her  a quid  for  me?  Well, 
of  all  the  liars!  Well,  of  all  the  robbers!  Of  all 
the  dirty  sons  of  pock-faced  tailors!  She  takes  the 
cooked  biscuit.  Troth  then,  she  only  gev  me  ten  bob 
an’  I had  to  fight  her  for  that.  O’  course  I’m  say  in’ 
nothin’  about  things  I might  say  a lot  about, 
but ” 

“Oh!  less  o’  yer  gab,”  growled  Gypo,  feeling  be- 
hind him  on  the  floor  with  his  hand.  “I’m  not  in 
humour  for  yer  gab,  Katie.” 

“Don’t  lie  on  the  floor,”  she  cried  solicitously. 
“Get  into  the  bed.  Lie  in  my  corner.  Don’t  mind, 

294 


THE  INFORMER 

Louisa.  The  corner  is  mine.  I can  let  who  I like 
int’  it.  Louisa,  if  ye  don’t  lie  still  I’ll  lave  ye  for 
dead  as  sure  as  Our  Lord  was  crucified.  So  I will. 
Well  what  could  ye  expect?  An’  I’m  sayin’  nothin’ 
now,  Gypo,  seein’  the  position  yer  in,  but  it’s  the 
price  o’  ye  all  the  same.  I hope  ye  don’t  mind  me 
speakin’  me  mind  out.  It’s  the  price  o’  ye  for  lavin’ 
them  that  were  kind  to  ye,  an’  throwin’  yer  money 
away  on  a strap  like  that.  But  sure  me  poor  mother 
used  to  say,  Lord  have  mercy  on  her ” 

“Get  outa  here,  get  outa  here,”  screamed  the  old 
woman,  waving  her  stick. 

Gypo  had  thrown  himself  on  the  bed  on  his  back. 
The  old  lady  began  to  beat  him  feebly  about  the 
body  with  her  stick.  He  took  no  notice  of  her.  He 
fumbled  with  the  heap  of  tattered  blankets,  arrang- 
ing them  about  his  legs. 

Katie  Fox  caught  up  the  tongs  and  approached  the 
bed  sideways,  making  furtive  signs  to  the  old  woman, 
urging  her  secretly  to  keep  quiet. 

The  old  woman  subsided,  muttering  something. 
Katie  went  back  to  the  fire  and  put  down  the  tongs. 
She  continued  to  talk.  She  was  rapidly  becoming 
more  excited.  Her  eyes  had  now  a look  of  insan- 
ity in  them.  Her  lips  were  constantly  becoming 
wreathed  with  smiles,  after  the  manner  of  a lunatic 
who  is  thinking  of  some  demoniac  buffoonery  in  his 
muddled  brain. 

“Though  few  people  know  it,”  she  cried  arro- 
295 


THE  INFORMER 

gantly,  looking  at  the  door,  while  she  put  a cigarette 
in  her  mouth,  “me  poor  mother  was  a born  lady. 
Put  that  in  yer  pipe,  Louisa  Cummins,  and  try  an’ 
smoke  it.  Yev  given  me  dog’s  abuse  since  I came 
into  yer  rotten  pigsty  of  a room,  but  still  an’  all  ye 
know  yer  not  fit  to  wipe  me  shoes.  So  I don’t  give 
a damn.” 

“Yerra,  d’ye  hear  her,  d’ye  hear  her?”  croaked 
Louisa  Cummins. 

She  began  to  laugh,  making  a noise  in  her  throat 
like  a hen,  that  quaint,  cunning,  querulous  sound, 
that  a hen  makes  at  night,  when  disturbed  during 
her  roosting  hours. 

Gypo  had  arranged  the  clothes  to  his  satisfaction. 
The  blankets  covered  his  body  up  to  his  chest.  His 
eyes  began  to  close.  His  little,  round  hat  still  re- 
mained on  his  head,  crushed  down  over  his  forehead. 
There  was  a continual  murmur  in  his  brain.  The 
sounds,  the  talk,  the  smells  about  him  no  longer  had 
any  meaning. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Danger,  fear,  everything  was  forgotten,  but  his 
desire  to  sleep. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

“Yerrah,  is  it  an  informer  I’m  lyin’  beside?” 
screamed  the  old  woman  again,  trying  to  rise  with 
fury.  “Get  out,  get  out.  There’s  blood  on  yer 
hands.  There’s ” 


296 


THE  INFORMER 

“Lie  down  or  I’ll  brain  ye,”  hissed  Katie,  rushing 
once  more  to  the  bed. 

With  a weary  sigh  Gypo  stretched  out  his  left 
hand  and  dropped  it  across  the  body  of  the  old  wo- 
man. She  subsided  under  the  weight  of  the  massive 
hand.  It  lay  across  her,  relaxed  and  tired.  She 
peered  at  it  curiously,  around  the  edge  of  her  blan- 
kets. Maybe  she  peered  at  it  in  terror.  Who  knows 
what  emotions  were  concealed  behind  that  hideous 
skull? 

Gypo  did  not  look  at  her.  His  eyes  were  almost 
closed.  His  nostrils  were  expanding  and  contracting 
noiselessly. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Then  a mad  rush  to  the  mountains. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

“Blast  it  for  a story,”  cried  Katie  Fox,  stamping 
on  the  floor. 

She  walked  to  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Then  she 
folded  her  arms  and  stood  with  her  legs  wide  apart 
and  her  chest  thrown  out,  gazing  at  the  dim  wall 
with  glittering  eyes.  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed. 

“Amn’t  I the  fool?”  she  cried.  “Oh!  amn’t  I the 
fool?  Me  that  could  walk  with  the  finest  men  in  the 
land!  Do  ye  know  that  me  gran’father  was  the 
Duke  o’  Clonliffey?  Do  ye  know  that?  An’  me 
mother  was  related  to  royalty  on  her  father’s  side. 

297 


THE  INFORMER 

Not  to  the  King  of  England  either,  but  to  me  bould 
King  o’  Spain,  where  they  grow  oranges  an’  ye  can 
drink  wine  out  of  a well  like  water  from  the  Shannon. 
Sure  it’s  there  where  I was  born  an’  reared,  in  a 
palace  as  big  as  the  County  Waterford,  with  arch- 
bishops waitin’  at  table  on  me,  with  red  napkins  on 
their  arms,  an’  a rale  lady ” 

“Yerrah,  will  ye  hould  yer  whist,”  piped  the  old 
woman. 

She  tried  to  brandish  her  stick  and  to  disengage 
herself  , from  the  hand  that  lay  on  top  of  her.  But 
the  hand  stiffened  for  a moment.  She  was  pressed 
down  beneath  it.  Then  the  hand  relaxed  again. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Gypo’s  eyes  opened  wide  for  a moment.  Then  he 
closed  them.  Everything  in  his  mind  became  a blur. 
Nightmares  stood  massed  in  his  brain  ready  to  rush 
in  on  the  platform  of  his  sleeping  mind  and  carry  on 
their  mad  acting,  as  soon  as  his  being  soared  off, 
bound  in  sleep.  He  had  already  surrendered  to 
these  nightmares. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Katie  Fox  looked  at  him  cunningly  for  a moment. 
Her  face  hardened  and  her  eyes  narrowed  to  points. 
Then  she  glanced  away  again,  towards  the  wall.  Her 
lower  lip  dropped.  Her  eyes  distended.  She  puffed 
twice  at  her  cigarette.  She  began  to  talk  again. 

“I  could  tell  ye  stories  about  them  all,  Gypo,”  she 
cried,  waving  her  arm  wildly  in  Gypo’s  direction. 

298 


THE  INFORMER 

“I  could  tell  ye,  so  I could,  but  what’s  the  use  of 
tellin’?  Wha’?  What’s  the  use  of  anythin’?  An’ 
Fr.  Conroy  refused  to  give  me  absolution.  Well,  he 
can  go  to  hell.  I can  get  along  without  his  absolu- 
tion. I’m  not  afraid  o’  hell.  Oh,  Mother  o’ 
Mercy!”  she  cried,  suddenly  crossing  herself;  “what 

have  I said?  What ” 

“Ha!  Cross  yersel’,  cross  yersel’,”  croaked 
Louisa  Cummins.  “But  it’s  no  good  to  ye.  Down 
ye’ll  go.  Down  ye’ll  go.  Ha,  ha,  ha!” 

“There’s  a curse  on  me  family,  Louisa,  since  me 
second  cousin  the  Duchess  of  ...  of  ...  of  ..  . 
where  is  that  place  she  was  Duchess  of?  . . .1  for- 
get it,  although  I was  there  often  with  me  mother. 
It’s  somewhere  out  be  Killiney.  Well,  she  put  a 
curse  on  me  family  anyway.  She  used  to  have  thir- 
teen monkeys  sittin’  at  the  breakfast  table  with  her.” 

“Yer  a liar,  yer  a liar,”  cried  the  old  woman  in  a 
sudden  fury.  “She  couldn’t  have  thirteen  monkeys. 
She  couldn’t  have  thirteen.  It’s  them  drugs  yer 
takin’  that’s  gone  to  yer  head.  Thirteen!  Foo!” 

Gypo  mumbled  something  in  a tremendous  whis- 
per. Both  women  looked  at  him.  His  lips  were 
moving,  but  the  words  were  unintelligible.  His 
massive  chest  heaved  up  to  an  enormous  extent  and 
collapsed  again  slowly,  with  a great  outrush  of 
breath  from  the  nostrils.  His  tawny  face  stood  out 
impassively  in  the  glimmer  of  the  firelight.  It 
looked  sorrowful  and  oppressed. 

299 


THE  INFORMER 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

He  was  wafted  away  by  heavy  gusts  of  sleep,  to  the 
thunderous  music  of  fantastic  nightmares.  Primeval 
memories  assumed  form  in  the  clouds  of  sleep  that 
pressed  down  about  him.  They  assumed  form  and 
shape,  the  shape  of  the  beings  that  pursued  him. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

His  strength  was  becoming  unbound,  dissolved  in 
sleep,  loosened  out  and  swaying  limply  on  vapours 
of  sleep. 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

“D’ye  know  what  I’m  goin’  to  tell  ye,  Louisa?” 
continued  Katie  in  a low,  hushed  voice.  “When  I’m 
dead  they’re  goin’  to  canonize  me.  Then  I’ll  have  a 
holy  well  out  on  the  Malahide  Road,  an’  I’ll  put  a 
spell  on  everybody  I don’t  like,  an’  make  them  get 
up  in  the  middle  o’  the  night,  an’  walk  out  barefoot 
to  the  well,  to  drink  three  cupfuls  o’  the  holy  water. 
An’  never  knowin’  that  I’ll  have  it  poisoned.  This 
is  a queer  world,  Louisa,  an’  ye’ll  soon  be  out  of  it, 
’cos  yer ” 

“Sorra  a fear  o’  me,”  croaked  the  old  woman. 
“I’ll  dance  on  yer  grave.  Ye  little  rip  o’  divilment. 
Yer  not  the  first  nor  the  fifth  that  has  come  into  me 
house  this  ten  years  an’  gone  the  same  road.  No  yer 
not.  An’  ye  won’t  be  the  last.  Oho!  Ye  all  got 
pretty  faces.  Ye  all  get  the  fine  strong  men  to  kiss 
ye.  But  old,  dirty-faced  Louisa  Cummins  ’ll  dance 
on  yer  graves.  She  dances  on  yer  graves.  So  she 

300 


THE  INFORMER 

does.  Now  what  are  ye  doin’  with  him?  Are  ye 
puttin’  yer  evil  spell  on  him?  Informer  an’  all  that 
he  is,  I’ll  not  let  ye  put  yer  evil  spell  on  him.  I’ll  not 
let  ye  do  that.  Go  away  from  the  bed.” 

Katie  had  come  to  the  bed  and  had  bent  down  with 
her  left  ear  to  Gypo’s  face,  listening  to  his  breathing. 
She  raised  her  face  to  look  at  the  old  woman. 

“He’s  dead  asleep,”  she  whispered  with  a smile. 

“Well?  Is  that  queer?” 

“Don’t  wake  him  while  I’m  gone,  Louisa.” 

“Where  are  ye  goin’?” 

“Mind  yer  own  business,  Louisa.  I’m  givin’  ye 
warnin’.” 

“Is  it  to  the  polis  yer  goin’?” 

“Don’t  talk  so  loud.  It’s  not  to  the  polis  I’m 
goin’.  I’m  just  goin’  out.” 

“Ha!  Yer  goin’  to  inform  on  him  ye  rip  o’  divil- 
ment.  Yer  goin’  to  inform  on  him.” 

“It’s  nothin’  o’  the  kind.  Isn’t  he  an  informer? 
Don’t  make  a noise.  Don’t  waken  him  or  they’ll  fill 
ye  full  o’  lead  when  they  come.  I’m  givin’  ye  this 
warnin’.  Shut  up.” 

She  moved  backwards  to  the  door,  with  her  hand 
held  out  threateningly  towards  the  old  woman.  The 
old  woman  looked  after  her.  Her  mouth  was  wide 
open.  Her  eyes  roamed  about.  Then  Katie  dis- 
appeared out  the  door.  Her  shoes  went  tapping 
down  the  stairs.  The  banisters  creaked.  The  room 
was  still,  except  for  Gypo’s  heavy  breathing. 

301 


THE  INFORMER 

The  old  woman  remained  motionless  for  several 
seconds,  looking  towards  the  door.  Then  she  groped 
for  her  stick  and  tried  to  rouse  Gypo  with  it.  But 
Gypo’s  arm  still  lay  across  her  body  holding  it  down. 
In  his  sleep  it  stiffened  and  held  her  down.  She 
peered  at  it  and  frowned.  She  dropped  the  stick  and 
smiled. 

“Ha!”  she  gurgled,  “she’s  gone  to  inform  on  ye, 
me  fine  boyo.  They’ll  soon  be  here  after  ye.  Trust 
a woman,  trust  a devil.  She’ll  be  the  ruin  o’  ye,  me 
bould  warrior.  An’  many’s  the  fine  strappin’  woman 
from  yer  own  country  would  give  her  two  eyes  for  a 
night  with  ye.  An’  here  ye  lie,  asleep  an’  weak,  with 
the  weariness  o’  death  on  ye.  Ha!  The  divil  mend 
the  lot  o’  ye.  Ha!  There  ye  are  now.  Ha! 
There  ye  are  now  an’  be  damned  to  ye.  Ha!  Ha!” 

Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Sleep  and  strange  dreams. 


302 


CHAPTER  XVII 


At  sixteen  minutes  to  six,  Mulholland 
rushed  down  the  stairs  into  the  Bogey  Hole, 
shouting  in  a hushed  whisper  all  the  way: 
“Commandant,  Commandant,  we  have  him,  we 
have  him!” 

Gallagher  rushed  to  the  stairway.  He  found  Mul- 
holland grasping  the  wall  with  one  hand,  with  his 
cap  in  the  other  hand,  panting,  with  perspiration 
rolling  down  his  cheeks  in  drops. 

“It  was  Katie  Fox,”  he  gasped.  “She  came  run- 
nin’  down  Mount  William  Road:  Charlie  Carrol 
headed  her  off.  She  tole  him  Gypo  was  up  in  her 
room,  in  bed.  No.  61  Mount  William  Crescent. 
Captain  Burton  has  got  the  house  surrounded.  He 
sent  me  up  for  orders.” 

“Katie  Fox?”  said  Gallagher.  “I  thought  she 
was ” 

“She’s  mad  with  dope.” 

“I  see.  Double  back  and  tell  Burton  I’ll  be  down 
immediately.  Don’t  move  till  I arrive.” 

“All  right,  Commandant.” 

Mulholland  raced  up  the  stairs  again.  Gallagher 
303 


THE  INFORMER 

rushed  back  to  the  witnesses’  room.  Mary  Mc- 
Phillip  had  fallen  into  a doze.  He  roused  her. 

“Come  on,  Mary,”  he  whispered.  “We  are  going 
now.  We  found  him.” 

“Who?  What?  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph!  Who 
did  you  find?” 

“The  informer.  Gypo  Nolan.  We  found  him  at 
61  Mount  William  Crescent.  I am  going  there  now. 
Come  along.  Then  I’ll  leave  you  home.” 

She  was  waking  up  gradually,  frightened  and 
rubbing  her  eyes.  Gallagher  fidgeted  excitedly,  try- 
ing to  get  her  to  her  feet. 

“What  time  is  it?”  she  asked. 

“A  quarter  to  six.” 

“Heavens  above!  Mother  will  be  gone  to  Mass 
before  I get  home.” 

“What  does  it  matter?” 

“Of  course  it  matters.  I was  to  have  gone  with  her 
this  morning.  For  Frankie.” 

“Where  does  she  go  to  Mass?” 

“Mount  William  Crescent.” 

“Well,  we’re  going  there,  too.  You  can  go  into  the 
chapel  and  meet  her  there.” 

“Why?  What’s  at  Mount  William  Crescent?” 

She  was  fully  awake  now  and  had  got  to  her  feet, 
wild  eyed. 

Gallagher  got  angry  and  swore.  He  stamped  his 
feet. 

“Come  on  quickly.  I have  no  time.  I tell  you 
304 


THE  INFORMER 

the  informer  has  been  found.  He  is  at  Mount 
William  Crescent.  I’m  going  down  there.  Come 
along.” 

“You’re  going  to  murder  him,”  she  gasped,  with 
her  bosom  heaving. 

“Murder  be  damned!”  cried  Gallagher.  “We’re 
going  to  wipe  him  out.” 

“You’re  a beast.  You’re  not  going  to  murder  him, 
not  while  I can  prevent  it.” 

She  rushed  from  the  room.  With  a fierce  oath  he 
rushed  after  her.  He  caught  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  The  sentries  rushed  up.  She  kept  screaming 
and  striking  out  with  her  clawing  hands. 

“Keep  her  here,”  he  hissed.  “Don’t  let  her  out  on 
any  account  for  an  hour.  Then  let  her  off  and  get 
home.  Good-bye.”  He  looked  fiercely  into  Mary’s 
eyes.  His  face  was  ashen  with  rage.  “We  spare 
neither  man  nor  woman.  Remember  that.” 

Then  he  rushed  up  the  stairs. 

“Murderer,  murderer,”  she  cried  after  him,  until 
they  stuffed  her  mouth. 


30S 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Shapeless  figures  dancing  on  tremendous 
stilts,  on  the  brink  of  an  abyss,  to  the  sound  of 
rocks  being  tumbled  about  below,  in  the  dark- 
ness, everything  immense  and  dark  and  resounding, 
everything  without  shape  or  meaning,  gloom  and 
preponderance,  yawning,  yawning  abysses  full  of 
frozen  fog,  cliffs  gliding  away  when  touched,  leaving 
no  foundation,  an  endless  wandering  through  space, 
through  screeching  winds  and  . . . crash. 

Gypo  awoke  with  a snort,  perspiring  with  his 
nightmare,  terrified. 

The  old  woman  had  at  last  awakened  him  by 
squeezing  his  nostrils  between  her  fingers.  He  sat 
up,  looked  about  him  and  saw  her.  He  saw  her 
weird  and  pale,  with  her  white  hair  streaming.  He 
was  going  to  strike  her  in  terror,  thinking  her  an 
ogre  from  his  dreams,  when  she  spoke. 

“They’re  after  ye,”  she  hissed.  “They’re  after  ye. 
They’re  on  the  stairs.” 

He  listened.  There  was  nothing.  Not  a sound. 
What?  Just  a whistle  of  the  wind  on  the  roof.  Ha! 
Something  creaked.  Was  it  the  bed?  No.  Trup, 
trip,  r-r-rip.  Somebody  had  slipped  on  the  roof. 

306 


THE  INFORMER 

Gypo  bounded  from  the  bed  to  the  floor  in  one 
leap.  He  stood  motionless,  crouching  forward,  pant- 
ing, with  dilated  nostrils.  A sound  came  on  the 
stairs  outside  the  door.  Somebody  on  the  stairs  said : 
“Hist!”  Then  utter  silence.  Gypo  stood  trans- 
fixed, still  wet  with  the  perspiration  of  his  nightmare. 

Then  he  moved  noiselessly  to  the  fireplace  and 
picked  up  the  tongs.  It  slipped  from  his  fingers  as 
he  rose  and  rattled  to  the  stone  hearth.  He  whirled 
about  to  the  door  with  an  oath.  Simultaneously  the 
door  was  flung  wide  with  a bang.  Three  flashes  of 
light  came  before  his  eyes  from  the  doorway.  As  he 
rushed  headlong  towards  them  there  was  a deafening 
roar.  Three  men  had  fired  together  at  him.  Then 
there  was  chaos. 

As  he  dashed  across  the  floor  to  the  landing,  he  felt 
a sting  like  frost-bite  in  his  thigh.  Then  he  saw 
their  terror-stricken,  mad  faces.  He  recognized  two 
of  them,  Mulholland  and  Hackett.  The  third  man 
was  Curley.  When  he  closed  with  them  and  felt  his 
giant  hands  on  the  soft  warm  flesh  of  their  bodies  he 
breathed  a sigh  of  satisfaction. 

Somebody  fired  again,  unintentionally,  in  the 
struggling  mass  on  the  landing.  It  must  have  been 
Curley.  For  his  thin  voice  screamed  querulously 
after  the  explosion,  “God  have  mercy  on  my  soul!” 
Gypo  smelt  burning  under  his  armpit  as  his  head 
was  bent  down  to  mobilize  his  spine  strength. 

Then  the  banister  gave  way  with  a crash  of  break- 
307 


THE  INFORMER 

ing  wood.  The  four  men  went  down,  without  a cry. 
Their  fists  thudded  with  dull  sounds  as  they  struck 
blindly  at  one  another  in  the  dark. 

They  fell  on  the  next  landing.  Gypo  and  Mul- 
holland  were  on  top.  Mulholland  had  his  right  knee 
on  Curley’s  back.  He  was  cool  with  the  mania  of 
death-terror.  He  bared  his  teeth  and  raised  his 
pistol  to  fire  into  Gypo’s  open  mouth.  But  Gypo 
rammed  him  with  his  monstrous  head. 

Mulholland  was  hurled  backwards  like  a gymnast, 
head  over  heels,  heels  over  head.  He  brought  up  on 
a black  sheepskin  carpet  outside  a tenement  door  in 
the  far  corner.  He  lay  with  his  knees  to  his  chin, 
perfectly  quiet.  The  pistol  shot  splashed  through 
the  whitewashed  woodwork  of  the  ceiling.  The 
pistol  jingled  to  the  floor. 

Gypo  scraped  around  on  his  hands  and  knees  in 
the  darkness.  He  groped  for  the  two  men  who  lay 
beneath  him.  He  felt  their  rumps,  their  backs,  their 
thighs,  in  a wide  sweep  of  his  hands.  Their  bodies 
were  lax  and  soft,  like  the  carcasses  of  dead  things. 
One  of  them  sighed  and  turned  over.  Gypo  rose  to 
his  feet.  Without  looking  anywhere  he  rushed  for 
the  stairs  and  leaped  down. 

Half-way  down  the  last  flight  he  paused  and  tried 
to  think.  But  he  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and 
shook  his  head. 

“It’s  no  use.  It’s  no  use,”  he  said  aloud. 

308 


THE  INFORMER 

There  was  a great  din  of  disturbed  people  in  the 
house  above  him. 

He  reached  the  hallway.  Through  the  open  door 
he  could  see  the  street  outside.  The  dawn  had  come. 
The  air  was  grey,  cold,  empty  and  silent.  He 
marched  steadily  to  the  door.  His  body  was  very 
cold.  And  his  mind  was  dead.  Cold  and  dead. 
Dead  and  cold. 

A stream  of  red  blood  trickled  down  over  his  right 
boot  from  the  wound  in  his  thigh.  Another  stream 
trickled  along  his  right  ribs.  He  did  not  know.  He 
was  cold  and  dead.  Dead  and  very  cold. 

He  stopped  in  the  doorway.  His  eyes  expanded. 
A last  passion  made  his  body  rigid.  He  roared.  He 
had  seen  Gallagher  standing  against  the  church  rail- 
ings across  the  road,  with  his  hands  in  his  raincoat 
pockets,  smiling  insolently. 

Gypo  descended  the  five  steps  to  the  street  at  one 
bound.  Then  as  his  right  foot  landed  on  the  pave- 
ment there  was  a rapid  succession  of  shots.  They 
came  from  all  sides.  Three  of  them  entered  his 
body.  Without  bringing  his  left  foot  to  the  pave- 
ment he  jumped  again  into  the  air,  with  his  two  hands 
reaching  out  and  his  face  turned  upwards,  in  the 
earnest  attitude  of  a symbolic  dancer. 

He  hurtled  out  into  the  street,  hopping  on  stagger- 
ing feet,  writhing  and  contorting.  Then  he  fell  to 
his  knees.  He  groaned  and  fell  prone. 

309 


THE  INFORMER 

He  struggled  up  again,  looking  wildly  around  him, 
holding  his  bowels  with  his  hands.  Gallagher  was 
there  in  front  of  him,  smiling  dreamily  now,  with 
distant,  melancholy  eyes. 

Gallagher  shrugged  himself  and  turned  away 
sharply  to  the  right. 

Gypo  wanted  to  go  after  him.  But  he  no  longer 
knew  why  he  wanted  to  go  after  him.  His  eyes  were 
getting  dim.  His  body  was  cold.  Cold  and  dead. 

Grinding  his  teeth  he  got  to  his  feet.  He  threw 
out  his  chest,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked 
ahead  like  a drunken  man.  He  walked  slowly 
straight  ahead,  straight,  stiff,  swinging  his  limp  hands 
slowly. 

He  walked  through  the  iron  gateway  of  the  church, 
along  the  concrete  path  to  the  door.  He  had  to 
crawl  up  the  steps  on  his  knees.  Blood  was  coming 
up  his  throat. 

Reverently  he  dipped  his  hand  into  the  holy -water 
font.  He  wet  his  hand  to  the  wrist.  He  tried  to 
take  off  his  hat  in  order  to  cross  himself.  His  hand 
pawed  about  his  skull,  but  his  fingers  were  already 
dead.  They  could  not  grip  the  tattered  hat.  He 
tried  to  cross  himself.  Impossible.  His  hand  could 
not  reach  his  forehead.  It  went  up  half-way  and 
then  fell  lifelessly.  It  was  a ton  weight.  He  strode 
to  the  left.  He  staggered  through  a narrow  Roman 
door.  He  was  in  the  church. 

It  was  a great  high  room,  curtained  with  silence. 

310 


THE  INFORMER 

At  the  altar,  away  in  the  lamp-lit  dimness  of  the 
dawn,  a priest  was  saying  Mass.  The  droning  sound 
of  the  words  came  down  the  silent  church,  peaceful, 
laden  with  the  quaint  odour  of  mystery,  the  mysteri- 
ous calm  of  souls  groping  after  infinite  things.  All 
round  the  church  the  people  knelt  with  bent  heads 
and  faces  wrapt  in  prayer  for  infinite  things.  Sad, 
haggard,  hungry  faces  wrapt  in  the  contemplation  of 
infinity,  wafted  out  of  the  sordidness  of  their  lives 
by  the  contemplation  of  infinite  things. 

Peace  and  silence  and  the  quaint  odour  of  mystery 
and  of  infinite  things. 

Deep,  long,  soft  words  murmured  endlessly  in  a 
silent  place.  Mystery  and  the  phantoms  of  death 
breathing  faint  breaths. 

Mercy  and  pity.  Pity  and  peace.  Pity  and 
mercy  and  peace,  three  eternal  gems  in  the  tabernacle 
of  life,  burnished  ceaselessly  with  human  dust. 

From  dust  to  dust. 

Gypo’s  eyes  roamed  around  the  church.  His  eyes 
were  very  dim.  There  was  a blur  before  them.  He 
thought  he  saw  somebody  whom  he  knew.  He  was 
not  sure.  Yes.  They  were  looking  at  him.  There, 
on  the  left,  on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle.  It  was  a 
long  way  off.  What?  Frankie  McPhillip’s  mother! 

He  set  out,  with  a great  sigh,  towards  her.  He  fell 
in  a heap  in  front  of  her  seat.  He  raised  his  head  to 
her  face.  He  saw  her  face,  a great,  white,  sad  face, 
with  tears  running  down  the  fat  cheeks.  He  strug- 

311 


THE  INFORMER 

gled  to  his  knees  in  the  aisle  before  her.  People 
were  rushing  to  him  talking.  He  waved  his  hands 
to  keep  them  away.  It  was  very  dark.  He  swal- 
lowed the  blood  in  his  mouth  and  he  cried  out  in  a 
thick  whisper: 

“Mrs.  McPhillip,  ’twas  I informed  on  yer  son 
Frankie.  Forgive  me.  I’m  dyin’.” 

“I  forgive  ye,”  she  sighed  in  a sad,  soft  whisper. 
“Ye  didn’t  know  what  ye  were  doin’.” 

He  shivered  from  head  to  foot  and  bowed  his  head. 

He  felt  a great  mad  rush  of  blood  to  his  head.  A 
great  joy  filled  him.  He  became  conscious  of  in- 
finite things. 

Pity  and  mercy  and  peace  and  the  phantoms  of 
death  breathing  faint  breaths.  Mercy  and  pity  and 
peace. 

“Lemme  go!”  he  cried,  struggling  to  his  feet. 

He  stood  up  straight,  in  all  the  majesty  of  his 
giant  stature,  towering  over  all,  erect  and  majestic, 
with  his  limbs  like  pillars,  looking  towards  the  altar. 

He  cried  out  in  a loud  voice: 

“Frankie,  yer  mother  has  forgiven  me.” 

Then  with  a gurgling  sound  he  fell  forward  on  his 
face.  His  hat  rolled  off.  Blood  gushed  from  his 
mouth.  He  stretched  out  his  limbs  in  the  shape  of 
a cross.  He  shivered  and  lay  still. 


312 


A NOTE  ON  THE  TYPE  IN 
WHICH  THIS  BOOK  IS  SET 


The  type  in  which  this  book  has  been  set  {on  the  Lino- 
type) is  Old  Style  No.  7.  This  face  is  largely  based 
on  a series  originally  cut  by  the  Bruce  Foundry  in  the 
early  seventies  which  in  its  turn  appears  to  have  fol- 
lowed, in  all  essentials,  the  details  of  a face  designed  and 
cut,  some  years  before,  by  the  celebrated  Edinburgh  type 
founders,  Miller  and  Richard.  It  has  always  been  a 
popular  and  satisfactory  face  for  book  work  because 
while  it  is  compactly  designed,  so  that  a large  number 
of  words  appear  on  a page,  its  compactness  is  not  ac- 
companied by  any  loss  in  legibility.  A page  set  in  Old 
Style  No.  7,  has  a subdued  color  and  even  texture  which 
makes  it  easy  and  comfortable  to  read. 


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